


It's a Long Way Up When You Hit the Ground

by ItsADrizzit



Series: All Loved Up [1]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 16:56:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 58,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19795078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/pseuds/ItsADrizzit
Summary: Vincent's future is still uncertain, but rather than dwell on it, all he wants to do is welcome Christian home from the World Cup and find a few moments of bliss in each other's company before the world comes along and sweeps them away again. Christian, however, isn't making things at all easy, and Vincent starts wondering if maybe he has other ideas.A story about moving in, uncertainty, finding true friendships, and questioning everything about your past, present, and future.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started out based off the Frank Turner song "[Don't Worry](https://youtu.be/px_vFaZanmE)" but sort of got away from me on that one.
> 
> Title is taken from the Imagine Dragons song "On Top of the World", but please go listen to [this version](https://youtu.be/35rZ0SsWf1w) first before judging me. Also... I HAVE MY REASONS, okay.
> 
> Thank you to [WhiteHaru37](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteHaru37/pseuds/WhiteHaru37) for beta-reading this hot mess even though you have strict rules about the level of fic rating you're willing to read and I definitely exceeded those bounds. Also, Haru is a terrible beta for spelling and grammar, despite having a degree in English literature, so I should say all those mistakes are my own, but really, Haru should have caught them.
> 
> The amazing banner that you see as the fic header was done as part of the 2019 WIP Big Bang by [afteriwake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake). Much thanks to them for this. I LOVE it, and I hope you'll all go check out all the amazing content they are creating for this challenge (and beyond!)
> 
> There is also a Spotify playlist I created to accompany this fic and encourage and inspire me as I wrote it. I thought I'd share it with all of you in case you want to turn it on in the background as you read: [It's A Long Way Up When You Hit the Ground - playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3XuEvsXWbazxNQL4nW9rxa?si=y1MJyjSpS5WrUO9uemWMig) It is also embedded below.

* * *

**Friday, 6 July 2018**

“Hm. It needs more flash, no?” Coco waved his hand in a sweeping gesture, giving a little flourish of his wrist at the end.

“For Christian?” Ben asked with a laugh. “Never. It’s too much already.”

Vincent stepped backwards and examined his handiwork.

He had wanted to do something to show Christian how proud he was of his performance at the World Cup, no matter the results of _Landsholdet_ ’s run, but Ben was right, Christian wasn’t generally one for elaborate, over-the-top gestures.

The trio had spent the better part of two hours now arranging everything just so—tying balloon strings to weights, draping red and white streamers strung through with tiny paper Denmark flags around the handrail, and hanging an enormous banner printed with “Welcome Home” in Danish, English, and Dutch across the wall of the entryway opposite the door.

“Do you think he will hate it?” Vincent asked.

“Christian? No. He’ll love it. He’ll just feign indifference so we don’t start thinking he’s gone soft and begun expressing emotions.”

Vincent let out a bark of a laugh at the absolute accuracy of Ben’s statement. “Too true,” he said, shaking his head and clapping a hand onto Ben’s shoulder.

A few weeks ago, Vincent had gotten a call from the club letting him know that he was expected at Enfield and asking him if he'd need them to organise accommodation for his return to London. His breath had hitched in his throat and his heart pounded as he'd replied with a "No, thank you. I will be making my own accommodations for my stay."

There it was, he'd thought, the final step. Christian's offer of a place in his life becoming that much more real with those few words.

He had tried not to think about it. He’d flown into London a few days earlier, cutting short his summer holiday, such as it was. Really, he’d spent the last month in Russia, following _Landsholdet_ from their oceanside training base to whatever city their next match was in and then back again.

The trip had been Christian’s idea—a gift, since _Oranje_ hadn’t managed to book themselves into the World Cup on their own. Not that it had mattered much where Vincent had spent his summer. Despite actually being in the same city for once, the two had still spent almost no time together. Vincent didn’t mind, though. He’d grown used to only seeing Christian over a screen. Everything had been no different than normal unless he let himself remember that the beds they sprawled across were close enough together for him to shove his feet into his trainers and sprint a few blocks until he was pounding on Christian’s door, panting and breathless.

He’d tried to enjoy the experience of being at the World Cup without thinking about how he wasn’t really at the World Cup. He’d spent hours laying in the sun on beaches, strolled through cities rich with history and culture, visited museums and parks, and flowed along with streams of people dressed head-to-toe in their country’s colours.

It would have been easy to sink into bitterness and resentment; to hole himself up and sulk about how, save one fluke year at AZ, he’d never been the striker his team wanted or needed. But what was done was done. _Oranje_ was missing from the tournament, for whatever reasons, but Christian was there, and Vincent loved few things more than watching him work his magic on the pitch. He’d said as much a few weeks ago, on the one night they had allowed themselves to give in to their desires and catch a few stolen moments together before Christian returned to his responsibilities.

When Christian had phoned to wish Vincent a happy birthday, his ordinarily calm eyes were wide, flickering with anxiety and need. His voice carried the slightest waver as he spoke about his match the next day. Little hints, barely noticeable if you didn’t know him well, but they were enough to tell Vincent it was his turn to hold Christian close and kiss the troubles from his mind for once—if only for a few hours.

So many times during their relationship, Christian had been the one to put on a brave face and keep Vincent together, Vincent’s voice near to breaking as he asked the same questions again and again and again: _What if I’m not enough? What if I can’t pull us through? What if I fail and let the whole country down?_

That night, it had been Vincent’s turn.

* * *

**Sunday, 1 July 2018 — Nizhny Novgorod, Russia**

Vincent stood nestled among the mass of Denmark supporters, every single one of them on their feet and cheering as the teams lined up for the penalty kicks that would decide their World Cup future.

Earlier, while the captains were negotiating the terms of the penalties, Christian had glanced in his direction, and Vincent’s heart had caught in a vice grip. He knew there was no way Christian could pick him out of the sea of faces staring down from the stands, but he’d flashed a wide, encouraging grin and held out his hands, fingers pressed together in the shape of a heart. He hadn’t bothered to make sure no one was watching. At that moment, he didn’t care if the entire world knew he loved Christian Eriksen. Vincent believed in him and would be his strength through anything, even if it all came crashing down around them.

 _If I could take this kick for you, I would do it without hesitation_.

Vincent thought the words in Christian’s direction as hard as he was able, but it wouldn’t matter, even if they did reach him somehow.

Christian’s whole country was looking to him, and although the weight of that could be crushing at the best of times, he would step up, head high, and lead his team forward, no matter the consequences.

As if on cue, Christian was the first to the penalty spot.

Vincent had watched him move through these motions more times than he could count—in stadiums across England, on the Enfield practice pitch, on screen as he lay in bed in a tiny Rotterdam flat long after his roommates were asleep. Today, Vincent took every step along with him, his body perched at the edge of his chair, hands gripping its overheated plastic until his fingertips burned.

Christian placed the ball, stepped backwards, and stared at the goal.

The crowd settled into a muted apprehension, their tension radiating out to fill the entire stadium as they held their collective breaths.

Vincent whispered a silent plea to whichever gods might be listening to ‘ _please let him have this, please let it go in, please let them win_.’

He counted the steps as Christian ran to the ball, his head up, eyes straight ahead.

Right foot back. Laces into the seam.

* _Thwack_ * of Christian’s boot against the ball, echoing out into the arena.

Vincent’s whole body tensed at the sound—ready to spring forward, in triumph or in agony.

The keeper dove the correct direction, but Christian had struck it with pace, and Vincent willed it to move faster, to curl the slightest bit more, to rise upward and away into the net.

A resounding * _clang_ * as the ball parried off the goalpost.

An instant later, the crowd exploded as one—agonised groans and screams of displeasure from all around Vincent; echoed by the delighted roar of the Croatian fans.

The ball rested in the grass a few metres from the goal, knocked to safety by the goalkeeper.

Christian turned away from the goal, his eyes downcast as he tugged the hem of his shirt up to cover his face.

Before Vincent’s mind caught up with his movements, he surged forward, struggling to push through the crowd and towards the pitch to—what, exactly? Leap over the wall and sprint to Christian’s side?

No. This wasn’t Vincent’s fight. He was powerless to help. All he could do was keep believing Christian’s miss wouldn’t matter and Denmark would still come out on top.

He whispered another prayer into the wind, begging anyone who might listen to let Schmeichel save this one. It wouldn’t take away the sting of Christian’s miss, but it would soothe the wounds a bit.

This time, the gods listened.

Schmeichel made the save.

Vincent leapt into the air, fist held high, and shouted along with the surrounding crowd. Everyone jumping and hugging and waving their arms. A shower spray of beer and water and whatever else anyone happened to be holding rained down to cover them all in a sticky film, but he barely noticed, attention focused only on Christian.

He now stood in line with his teammates, their arms linked or slung around shoulders or waists. All of them leaned together in solidarity as their captain, Simon Kjær, stepped forward and buried his kick past a diving Croatian goalkeeper.

The teams remained even through four rounds, Schmeichel stepping up and producing another massive save to hold his team level after another Denmark miss.

Nicolai Jørgensen stepped to the spot, the fifth player to take for Denmark.

Vincent had only met Jørgensen a few times in passing, but his _Oranje_ teammates spoke highly of him. Two seasons ago, he’d led Feyenoord—Vincent’s very much former club—to their first Eredivisie title in fifteen years, and was lauded as the club’s hero and their best hope for the future. He’d been the league’s top scorer that year, an honour Vincent himself had once held. It hadn’t made much difference for him, at least in terms of his goal scoring form in subsequent seasons, but hopefully Jørgensen wore the mantle differently.

Vincent needed to believe that, unlike himself, Jørgensen would find the back of the net when it mattered.

In the stands, Vincent plastered his hands over his eyes. Heart slamming in his chest, he couldn’t watch, couldn’t speak, couldn’t even breathe.

Around him, the rustle of clothing and the squeak of shoes on damp concrete as everyone shifted and stirred.

Shrill blast of a whistle and a hollow * _thud_ * as boot struck ball, followed by a roar from the crowd.

A beat, and as one, the Danish fans collapsed into their seats, heads back as they groaned or shouted curses up at the sky.

Vincent lowered his hands slowly, already knowing the outcome, but needing to see it for himself.

On the field, the line of Danish players stood together, faces buried in their hands.

Jørgensen bent double, forehead pressed to the ground as he slammed his fists into the turf.

He’d missed.

The pressure was on Kasper Schmeichel to come up with one more amazing save.

Once more, Vincent willed the football gods to take notice. He wasn’t asking this for himself; he was asking it for Christian, who was everything good about football. Who deserved to leave Russia with a medal around his neck. Who worked harder than anyone Vincent had ever met and loved this game more than anything else in his entire life.

The crowd around Vincent settled into an uneasy hush, the low murmurs joined with the squeak of seat hinges and the swish of fabric to fill up the space into an unsettling, hanging silence that spread into every centimetre of space.

Vincent held in his breath, not daring to move until he heard the smack of gloves parrying the ball away to safety.

Schmeichel was an excellent goalkeeper, one of the strongest he’d faced, and he knew how to step up in pressure situations.

Instead, the swish of the net and an uproar from the fans and all eleven representatives of _Landsholdet_ crashed, deflated and dejected, to the ground.

They’d poured themselves into a match for two hours, and it had all unravelled with one kick.

That was football, but it didn’t make things hurt any less.

Vincent understood. He’d experienced such defeat too many times in his life—standing on a pitch that a few moments ago had carried such potential but now held only disappointment. The crush of it mixing with the exhaustion you’d kept at bay through adrenaline and sheer force of will until you collapsed, spent and boneless, to the ground.

One by one, the Danish players climbed to their feet, led by Kjær, who had managed to drag himself out of his emotions long enough to get up, walk to each of his teammates, and offer them a hand. He gathered them together—Jørgensen and Schmeichel first, then Christian—wrapping each of them into enormous hugs.

Christian, when he’d found his feet, wiped once at the corners of his eyes with the collar of his shirt, then joined Kjær in rounding up their teammates.

All around Vincent, the supporters, many still with tears in their eyes and anguish in their voices, sang down at their beloved team, who had come so far and had deserved to go farther. Vincent wanted to lend his voice to the chorus, but although the melody was familiar, he couldn’t understand the words.

He might be clad in the red and white of Denmark, wrapped up in the colours of the man he loved with all his heart, but he still wasn’t one of them.

Vincent lingered there, staring down at the scene playing out before him—Danish players slowly gathering together and lining up to offer their applause and thanks to the huddle of supporters, Croatian team doing the same, albeit with a different sort of tears wetting the corners of their eyes.

It wasn’t until the pitch was cleared and the stands began to empty that Vincent turned, allowing the stadium stewards to usher him back into the masses. He wanted nothing more than to find Christian, to beg and scream and generally make a scene until someone let him down into the tunnels beneath the stadium so he could wrap Christian up in his love and make him believe that everything would be okay.

Instead, he flowed along with the crowd, finding his way into a taxi and back to his hotel.

When he crashed into his bed an hour later, damp and sticky and exhausted, he grabbed his phone and sent off a string of messages to Christian—routine commiserations and the offer of a listening ear. Vincent knew the way of these things. He’d give comfort and love, because it was all he could do. Whenever Christian was ready to talk, Vincent would lend support.

‘ _I’m proud of you._ ’  
‘ _Call me if you need. Any time_.’

He hesitated a moment, then banged out a follow-up message.

‘ _I love you. Always._ ’  
‘ _Remember. Whatever happens, we will get through it together._ ’

Christian hadn’t returned his messages until well past two in the morning; a straightforward ‘ _Thanks for being there. Sorry we didn’t win._ ’

Vincent had taken a moment to respond, despite the hour. He’d been lying awake in his own bed, unable to sleep despite his bone deep weariness and the lead weights over his eyelids.

‘ _I will see you when you get home._ ’

He’d heard nothing from Christian since.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thursday, 5 July 2018**

“Vincent,” Ben answered, shouting a bit to be heard over the hiss of traffic and background conversation drifting through the phone line from his surroundings. “Hello mate, how’ve you been?”

“Good, good,” Vincent replied. “Sorry to bother you.”

“No, no bother. It’s good to hear from you. Where are you these days?”

“Oh. I am…back in London for a time while I sort things out with the club.” It wasn’t strictly a lie, but Ben didn’t need to know the whole truth of his situation.

“Hm. You’ll be leaving then?” And wasn’t that the question on everyone’s mind these days?

“I have no idea. I mean, yes, I will be leaving, that much is certain. But I do not yet know when or where or for how long. So…”

“Right,” Ben said. “We should catch up while you’re in town. I’m out with Coco right now. We could meet you somewhere. Where are you staying?”

Vincent chewed at the inside of his cheek as he tried to think of a good response to Ben’s question.

“I am…staying by Christian, actually. He offered me a place while I am in town because he has a spare room.”

Sure, he’d omitted the specifics about how he was only technically staying in the spare room—by which he meant it was where he kept his two suitcases full of clothing and assorted belongings—but Ben didn’t need to know that. Christian was sensitive about these things. He’d been anxious enough when he’d learned Vincent had confided in Roman and Martin1 about their relationship, even though Vincent had assured him they could be trusted and were highly supportive of the whole situation.

Across the phone line, Ben made a low, strangled noise that might have been an affirmation, but also might have been him choking on something. “I…that’s…good of him. I didn’t know he was back.”

“He is not,” Vincent said. “Not yet. I think maybe tomorrow. This is why I was calling.”

He laid out his, admittedly not well-formed plans to welcome Christian home with food from his favourite Scandinavian restaurant in London, the one that served the _romkugler 2_ Christian always said was better than the ones his grandmother used to make.

“Nothing elaborate,” Vincent finished. “Just some food and a few friends, you know?”

Another indecipherable noise from Ben. “Sure mate. I’m in. What should I bring?”

“Actually,” Vincent said, leaning back into the cushions of Christian’s sofa and scanning the wide open space around him. “If you aren’t too busy, would you mind stopping by tonight? I’m ready to crawl up the walls sitting around this house with just myself to talk to.”

* * *

Ben turned up around a half an hour later.

He was accompanied, as promised, by Érik “Coco” Lamela, both of them rushing into the house the moment Vincent pulled the door open.

“Have you eaten yet?” Ben asked by way of greeting. “Coco and I were headed to dinner, but we thought we’d stop and see if you wanted to join us. There’s a new place not far from here that I’ve been meaning to try. I had thought to wait until Christian was back, but now’s as good a time as any. We can give him the full report later. Save him from investigating it himself. What do you think?”

Vincent blinked at him for a few seconds, struggling to process the rapid stream of lilting, musical English flying out of Ben’s mouth. Ben, god love him, was a good friend and always made for pleasant company, but he tended to blast all his thoughts at you rapid-fire and left it on you to keep up.

“What? Dinner?”

“Yes.” Ben didn’t even bother to stop and remove his shoes before stepping past Vincent towards the kitchen, accustomed to making himself at home in Christian's house in a way Vincent still wasn’t. “I suppose we could order in if you’d prefer. We just figured we’d stop by and say hello since you called and we’ve not seen you for ages.”

“Hello,” Coco said on cue, wrapping Vincent in an enormous hug. “How are you my friend? It is good to see you again. You look well.”

“Thanks,” Vincent replied. “Same to you, of course.”

Ben spun around at this, leaning against the door frame as he eyed Vincent appraisingly. “You do look fit. And tan. I take it hols treated you well. What have you been up to? I hardly saw a thing from you all summer.”

Vincent’s heart did a little stutter-step in his chest.

The question was a routine one in the lives of footballers reacquainting themselves after time off, but it was a subject Vincent had hoped to avoid. There was no good way to explain to anyone that he’d spent his summer following Christian around Russia.

He waved it away with a flick of his hand. “Oh, you know, friends. Catching up with family. Time at the beach. The usual boring things. Anyway, come in and sit down.”

Ben and Coco trailed after him as he led them towards the conservatory at the back of the house. The heat was still far too oppressive to spend any more time than necessary outdoors, but the conservatory, with its wide windows and bright spaces, afforded them a pleasant view of the back garden while sheltering them somewhat from the harsh sun.

It felt odd, Vincent ushering them through Christian’s house as though it were his own. In a way, he supposed, it was, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of being a stranger looking out for someone else’s home while they were away. Maybe it would fade once Christian returned, but he doubted it. For as much as Vincent pretended he had a life here, the truth was he didn’t really belong anywhere at the minute.

 _Best not to waste time dwelling on it_ , he told himself. For now, he was living with Christian in an odd approximation of domesticity, for whatever it was worth. He might as well make the best of the situation until the football gods once more decided his fate and whisked him off to the next stop on his journey.

He busied himself with rearranging the room, dragging the oversized wicker chairs lining the periphery into a circle around the glass-topped table Christian used whenever it was his turn to host board game nights or dinners with friends. Ben and Coco pitched in, the three of them working together to lift some of the heavier pieces into place until they’d managed a functional yet still cozy set-up in a shady spot near the centre of the room.

Furniture situated and everyone seated, Vincent flicked a glance back towards the kitchen, realising he had nothing to offer his guests by way of food or drink.

“Now that we have rearranged,” he said, “I wonder if we should not go somewhere. I have just arrived myself and Christian’s been away so there is not much to eat. I don’t even think I can offer you anything to drink unless you want orange juice or one of Christian’s fitness waters, He has an entire garage full of those, but nothing else.”

“Water’s fine for me,” Ben said. “The regular kind, not Christian’s lot. That stuff is vile. If you’d like, I can drive over to pick up some beers or the like. Properly enjoy our last few days before training starts up, yeah?”

“Hm,” Coco said. “But Christian must have something else to drink, no?”

Vincent shrugged. “I honestly do not know. It’s not as if I dug through the cupboards. You are welcome to do so, but don’t blame me if he gets angry about it.”

“Christian? Never.”

Coco slid out of his chair and disappeared around the corner into the kitchen. Vincent heard doors opening and closing, followed by a muffled exclamation and then, a few moments later, what sounded like ice hitting glassware.

“So,” Ben said, leaning towards Vincent, one elbow resting on the arm of his chair. “You never said. Did you find yourself anywhere interesting on your hols? No exciting adventures for me this year. Popped down to Sardinia for a time, but I’d planned to be at the World Cup, so…you know.”

Vincent did know. Although…technically he had been at the World Cup. Not that he could tell Ben as much. He bit down hard on his tongue and tried to think of a plausible explanation for what he’d been up to over the past month.

“It’s as I said. I travelled a bit, although I did not go far from Istanbul. A…friend wanted to visit the Black Sea coast. That is where we stayed, mostly.”

He dug into his pocket for his phone and scanned through his photos from the summer, angling the screen away from Ben’s line of sight as he flipped past images of him clad in Denmark gear and any that clearly depicted football stadiums or recognisable Russian landmarks.

When he reached the photos he and Roman had taken on the beach in Anapa—relaxing on lounge chairs in the sun, swimming in the ocean, and gorging themselves on food from around the world—he smiled and held the phone out towards Ben.

“This is Roman. We are teammates together at Fenerbahçe and he has become a close friend of mine. Since neither of us were playing in the World Cup, we took time to meet up over the summer.”

Eventually, he came to a series taken during a fierce game of beach volleyball they’d gotten into with a group of Brazilian fans. They’d lost miserably, of course, but that hadn’t stopped Vincent from snapping photo after photo of Roman lying face down in the sand after he dove for a ball, missed it, and slid half a metre along the ground.

The pictures finished with a shot of Roman flashing Vincent a rude gesture—his thumb raised between his index and middle finger—while trying to spit out a mouthful of sand.

“This is your…teammate, you said?” Ben’s words were hesitant and clipped at the edges. “You two look…close.”

All Vincent said in response was, “Yes.”

He could tell Ben wanted to ask him any number of follow-up questions, but before he got the chance Coco reappeared, holding two glasses of an orangeish-brown liquid.

“For you, amigos. I knew Christian would still have the Campari I left with him. Perfect to chase away the heat of the day.” He handed a glass to each of them, ice cubes clinking against the sides, then ducked back around the corner for his own.

Vincent eyed the drink, beads of condensation already pooling on his thumb and forefinger. It was mercifully cold, which he appreciated, but after what he and Christian had taken to referring to as “the Christmas party incident” last December, he’d learned to be wary of anything Coco handed him.

“Drink, drink,” Coco said, flitting his hand around palm up in the universal gesture for ‘drink up’.

Ben shrugged and took a sip. “Not bad. You’re right. Reminds me of a beach somewhere, salt in the air from the ocean, not a cloud in sight. A fitting way to see out our last days of summer.”

“Absolutely, yes,” Coco replied.

Vincent narrowed his eyes at the glass. “This will not end up like the last time I let you make me a drink, will it?”

Coco let out a full-throated laugh, his head tipped back towards the ceiling, free hand pressed to his chest. “Who can know the future? Although, I think it will not be quite the same, no. For one thing, Christian is not here. So.”

Ben set his drink on the table and leaned closer. “This sounds like a story I need to hear.”

“It definitely is not,” Vincent said, cutting Coco off before he could fill Ben in, although he be shocked if anyone hadn't at least heard about the incident by now. “I made the mistake of letting Coco test out a new drink recipe on me and ended up very much regretting it. That is all we will say.”

The full story, in all its embarrassing glory, was that Christian had dragged Vincent along to Jan’s Christmas party, despite his protestations. Approximately half an hour after arriving, he’d found himself whisked away by Coco, Paulo Gazzaniga, and Wesley Hoedt to “test Coco’s latest creation.” This had ended up with him getting astonishingly drunk and kissing Christian in front of a room full of people.

Somehow, Christian had managed to explain it away as a joke, saying Vincent always got overly familiar when he was drunk—which was true, but in this case was beside the point.

Ben laughed and put a hand on Vincent’s shoulder—chilled and damp from where it had been wrapped around the glass. “Oh, mate. We’ve all been there. Trust me.”

Coco grinned and tipped his head to the side in acknowledgement, then raised his glass in mock salute, causing Vincent and Ben to break into laughter.

After they’d regained themselves, Vincent raised his own glass towards Coco, the others leaning forward to clink their glasses together in a silent ‘ _cheers_ ’.

“Enough about the past,” Vincent said, trying to divert the conversation back to the reason he’d called this gathering. “About Christian’s welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Roman and Martin here refers to Roman Neustädter and Martin Škrtel, Vincent's teammates at Fenerbahçe.  
> 2\. Romkugler is a Danish dessert. Sort of a chocolate rum ball thing. The recipe is [here](https://www.scandikitchen.co.uk/recipe-romkugler-rum-flavour-chocolate-treats/) if you want it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Friday, 6 July 2018**

Vincent woke early, his body buzzing with the excitement of Christian’s return. He tried to force himself back into sleep, knowing this would be one of his last few days off before he was thrust back into training full force, but he gave up after a quarter hour and slid out of bed.

He’d been sleeping on his sofa in the spare room. His first night back he’d started out in Christian’s bed, but something about sleeping there without Christian beside him had felt more foreign and odd than every night he’d ever spent in a hotel bed, so he’d quickly abandoned the idea and moved to his sofa instead.

He could have settled in the guest bedroom, but he wasn’t exactly a guest here—despite not exactly being a resident either—and something about bunking down there felt too formal for his liking. Besides, he’d missed settling into his sofa, face buried in the comfortingly familiar grey fabric.

The sun peered in through his window blinds, casting a series of diagonal stripes across the pale wooden floorboards. He tugged on the cord to open the blinds, flooding the room with the golden light of morning.

Birdsong drifted in through the window. Vincent had pulled it open the previous evening in hopes of letting in whatever passed for a breeze during this recent run of stiflingly hot weather. He wasn’t sure it had done much good, but he appreciated the way the background soundtrack of chirps and tweets, undercut by the drone of passing cars on the street in the distance filled up the silence of the empty house.

A glance at his phone told him it was just after 8:00 in the morning. By his best guess—which wasn’t all that good—Christian wasn’t due to arrive until mid-to late afternoon at the earliest. He had a full day of anxious anticipation for Christian’s arrival ahead of him.

It had been Jan, not Christian, who'd sent Vincent a message to let him know about Christian's planned return to London.

Vincent had tried messaging Christian a few more times—once to let him know he was safe and to confirm that it was alright if he stayed at Christian's house until things with Spurs got sorted out, once more to ask Christian's plans for the next few weeks, and a third to ask if there was anything Christian needed done around the house—but he'd never gotten a response.

Belgium had advanced into the quarterfinal rounds of the World Cup, narrowly escaping the same fate Denmark had suffered with a stoppage time goal to take them past Japan, so Vincent hadn't expected to hear anything from the Belgian trio. But when he'd checked his phone the previous afternoon, he'd found a message from Jan asking if Vincent was in London.

When he'd responded that, yes, he was, Jan had sent a string of messages detailing everything he knew about Christian's plans—he would likely be flying into London from Denmark on Friday, unless he stayed on a few more days to see his family. Jan didn't know the time, Christian hadn't said, and of course plans were likely to change, but Jan thought it might be nice if Christian had someone there to welcome him home.

Thankfully, due mostly to Ben and Coco’s willingness to act as co-conspirators in all of this, Vincent had already drafted a rather lengthy mental list of errands to accomplish before everyone showed up that afternoon. He’d distributed some of the tasks, asking Ben if he’d mind stopping by to pick up the catering order on his way over and putting Coco in charge of whatever party decor he’d dreamed up since their brainstorming session over dinner the night before.

This left Vincent to retrieve the banner he’d had printed and stop by the store to stock up on drinks for the party. The three of them had finished off the remaining orange juice the previous evening, and unless everyone wanted coffee or tap water, or were willing to brave Christian’s fitness drinks, they’d all be going thirsty later.

He didn’t bother to shave or do much more than brush his teeth and give a quick swipe at his hair to flatten it out enough that he’d look presentable when he ventured out later. It was longer than he’d like, the sides an in-between length—long enough that it tended to stick out at odd angles, but not long enough to lay down flat—and the top grown out to the point where it tended more towards unruly, threatening to break free of the bonds of his hair product and flop down over his forehead. He’d not gotten a chance to stop in for a trim since he’d been back, and even with Roman playing tour guide, Vincent hadn’t been brave enough to navigate a haircut anywhere on his whirlwind tour of Russia.

Add another item to his task list for the day. Honestly, the way things were going he might be fortunate to have more than a few seconds to think about Christian at all.

Looking put together enough to think about leaving the house without embarrassment, he stashed away his toilet kit in the cabinet, snagged his recently used towel from where he’d dropped it on the floor, and gave a quick swipe at the sink in an attempt to return the bathroom to the pristine state he’d found it in when he’d arrived.

His first order of business, of course, was coffee. That started, he gathered together the remnants of the few meagre groceries he’d picked up when he’d arrived earlier that week—assorted fruit, whole grain toast, the last of the yoghurt, and a boiled egg—then settled down to eat.

* * *

He returned to the house, hair freshly trimmed, carrying a rolled-up banner, two bags of cubed ice, and two shopping bags filled with drinks, just after half one. 

Ben and Coco weren’t due to arrive until 2:00pm at the earliest, giving Vincent plenty of time to enjoy his lunch, get the drinks cooling in the sink, and relax. 

Lunch was nothing exciting; a pre-made salad of grilled chicken breast seasoned with a smokey-sweet rub over a bed of mixed greens, brightly coloured peppers, tomatoes, and a splash of oil and a squeeze of lemon over the top. It wasn’t remarkable, but it was food and it fit the requirements of his diet plan. Training hadn’t yet started, but Vincent had spent most of last season trying to stay fit and trim for whenever he might be cleared to resume playing, and he’d done his best to maintain the habit over the summer—with a few exceptions for some well-earned cake and drinks, of course. 

Hot, white sunlight flooded in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and Vincent squinted against its glare. He thought about getting up; taking his meal, such as it was, into the living room or upstairs to eat on his sofa. Turn on the television and relax for a bit before everyone started arriving. 

Somehow, though, it felt more proper to eat here at the long wooden table; more respectful towards the house’s absent owner, even though Christian was always the first to carry his plate out into the living room and settle in on the sofa while they ate. 

Phone in hand, he scrolled absently through his social media, stopping to like a few photos on his friends’ Instagram accounts—wishing everyone good luck in their upcoming World Cup matches and leaving teasing comments on posts about the first week of training from his teammates at Fenerbahçe. It felt like salt in an open wound to see them all together again, happy and smiling while Vincent’s future was still uncertain. 

Too soon, he reached the end of his feed, and dropped his phone to the table. 

He concentrated on his lunch, chewing slowly and taking his time savoring each bite. The flavors were decent, all things considered—it was a pre-made supermarket salad, after all, so he wasn't expecting miracles. But he'd just returned from a year in the Mediterranean, and even the best food he'd managed to round up since he’d been back in England didn't quite measure up to the rich flavours and fragrant spices he'd grown accustomed to in Istanbul. 

Lunch finished, the packaging thrown in the bin, and the cutlery washed, dried, and put away, Vincent retrieved his phone from where it still lay on the dining room table, and settled in the living room, hoping to distract himself with some television. 

It was too early yet for the start of the World Cup coverage, so he flicked through the channels until finally landing on the broadcast from Wimbledon. 

Tennis wasn’t a sport Vincent followed, but he could appreciate the skill needed to play the game well, and Wimbledon gave such gravity and ceremony to everything—the sharp, all-white attire standing in stark contrast to the green grass. 

The match was interesting with both players seeming comparably skilled, but it still hadn’t taken long for Vincent to grow restless. The sport had its intrigue, but it wasn’t without a fair bit of monotony—ball skipping back and forth in a high arc, the rhythmic double-thump of ball against ground then racket punctuated by the precise yells and grunts of the players. 

It tended to make Vincent’s mind wander, and that was precisely what he’d been hoping to avoid. He switched off the television. 

Still close to an hour until Ben and Coco would arrive, and there wasn’t much sense to him bouncing around the house trying to invent things to do. 

He found himself drifting upstairs and into the spare room. Without thinking, he bent down and rifled through his still jumbled suitcase until he produced a plain white t-shirt and a pair of jogging shorts. He stripped out of the clothes he’d worn earlier, soft fabric of the shirt already slightly damp with sweat just from existing in the sweltering temperatures. Even though Christian’s house was designed to stay pleasantly cool in the summers, there was little anyone could do to combat this heat. 

A run right now, the sun at its apex in the hottest part of the day, was a monumentally stupid idea. That didn’t stop Vincent from grabbing his trainers from where he’d left them by the front door, lacing them up, and heading out. 

The route he traveled was familiar. He’d run it alongside Christian enough times during their time together. Up Highgate Hill, left into Hampstead Heath. Follow the path beside the ponds. Ordinarily, unless the weather was bad or they had a particularly grueling training session the day before, they’d cut along the path to the viewpoint near the south end of the park, turn back east, and loop around, dropping out of the park onto Highgate Road a few blocks from Christian’s house. 

Before he’d even reached the park entrance his shirt was already soaked through with sweat. 

It trickled down his back, his skin prickling and itching with the sensation, but he pushed through and carried on along the route. He’d need to do better than this if he had any hope of impressing anyone at training—be it Pochettino or the Fenerbahçe coaching staff. 

Or someone else entirely. 

He told himself not to dwell on it. To take things as they came, enjoy whatever time he had in London, and then make his way wherever he ended up next. A year ago he’d managed to convince himself he had a choice in things, a chance to stay tucked up here alongside Christian, but time and distance had shifted his perspective. 

Now, all he wanted was some permanence; a place to call his own, wherever it happened to be. 

The park was emptier than usual, most of its regular visitors smart enough to stay indoors or congregate under shelters, parents moving their children from scorching plastic and metal playgrounds to the friendlier confines of swimming pools and aquatic centres. 

Only Vincent and a few other stalwarts too proud or stubborn or foolish to abandon their routines were out and about. 

Vincent rounded the path near the ponds and came to the split that would take him deeper into the park. It only added a few kilometres, but would conclude with him having to run up the steep slope of Highgate Hill. 

He thought about pushing himself, knowing he needed to work harder, get fitter, find the next level he never quite managed to reach, but the temperature was well past the 25-degree mark and climbing. His shirt and shorts were dripping wet and clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He had a lot left to do before Christian’s arrival, and he’d be no good to anyone if he was so exhausted he could barely stand, so he turned left and headed for home. 

As it was, he arrived at Christian’s house sweat-soaked and stinking from his exertions, to find Ben standing on the doorstep, two shopping bags at his feet and an enormous white cardboard box laid across both arms. 

“Ben,” Vincent said, digging his keys out of the pocket of his jogging shorts. “That is…what is all that? 

“Dunno mate.” Ben did his best to shrug without dropping his armful of boxes. “You ordered it.”


	4. Chapter 4

All that, it turned out, was the food Vincent had asked Ben if he wouldn’t mind picking up on his way over.

“How many people did you invite to this do?” Ben asked as they pulled cardboard boxes and plastic containers from bags and spread them out across Christian’s kitchen island. They quickly ran out of space and had to start wedging things in along the countertops.

Once they’d finished, Vincent had swiveled his head from side-to-side, taking in the stacks of assorted meats, cheeses, breads, vegetables, and garnishes, along with the box of _romkugler_ and apple cake Ben had set off to the far end of the counter.

“I think I ordered a bit much.”

Ben let out a full, deep laugh, then slapped a hand onto Vincent’s shoulder. “Mate, that might be the understatement of the century.”

Food unpacked, Vincent left Ben to make himself comfortable and headed upstairs to shower and change out of his sweat-drenched t-shirt and shorts. This time, he took care getting ready, lingering a bit longer than usual over his choice in clothing.

He settled on a pair of dark khaki chino shorts and a slim cut navy V-neck. He’d bought the shirt on a whim during a quick trip back to London between the end of the season and the start of his World Cup holiday and it had earned him no end of attention from a string of random strangers as he and Roman drifted around Russia. In fact, Roman had joked that it must have magical powers and Vincent ought to go back and purchase every single one the store had in stock.

Clothing sorted, he showered and moved on to trying to arrange his hair back in order. It had looked fabulous after his trip to the salon, of course, but a few minutes exertion in the heat had put paid to that, so he was back to attempting to organise it himself.

The better part of an hour later, impeccably dressed and looking and smelling his best, he finally made his way back downstairs.

Only to find Ben and Coco surrounded by metallic balloons, their arms shoved up to the elbows into a bin full of tinsel and garlands and what must have been all the confetti at the party favours store.

“Did you bring over all the glitter in London?”

They both turned towards him, Ben’s eyes widening and his mouth dropping open slightly as he scanned Vincent head to toe.

Coco, for his part, let out a short whistle of appreciation, followed by an eyebrow waggle. “Looking good, Vincent. I hope you didn’t go through all this trouble just for us, eh?”

“Of course,” Vincent said. “How else can I expect to measure up to all your good looks and charm?”

Ben let out a loud snort at this, but Coco flashed Vincent a wide grin and flung an arm around his shoulders, tugging him into an awkward sideways hug.

“Ah, _Vincente_. I forgot how much I like you.”

Vincent returned his grin, then ducked out from under his arm and stepped forward to investigate the contents of the bin for himself. “Enough of this. We have much work to do, yes?”

* * *

Decorating done and the food stashed away neatly in the refrigerator or left on counters in its boxes, there was nothing to do but wait.

Vincent sat sprawled between Ben and Coco on the brown leather sofa. The television was on, tuned into Sky where a handful of ex-footballers in suits were gathered around a studio set debating Belgium’s chances against a Brazil side that were growing into the tournament in a way Belgium were not. Vincent found himself frowning at most of the comments—nearly all of the pundits coming down on the side of Brazil in the matchup—although Vincent had to admit he couldn’t disagree.

The Belgian team would all be getting ready for their match now, but Vincent slid out his phone and sent off a quick group text to Mousa, Jan, and Toby wishing them all _veel succes_ and letting them know he’d be watching. He and the trio had their differences of opinion over the years—namely he and Toby’s decided lack of agreement on all things concerning Christian’s choice in relationships—but he did genuinely wish them well.

Besides, as Christian so often liked to remind him, the Spurs players were still technically Vincent’s teammates, for whatever that was worth.

On the television, the discussion moved away from the upcoming match and on to the tie between England and Sweden the following day. Vincent grabbed the remote from where it sat on Christian’s coffee table and turned the volume to low—ignoring Coco’s whine of protest. He told himself he’d done it so he wouldn’t miss the sound of Christian’s taxi pulling into the drive, but he knew that was only, at best, half his rationale.

The other half…well.

Vincent didn’t hold any ill will against the Swedish team, not really. It hadn’t been their fault _Oranje_ hadn’t gotten the job done and had let Sweden slide into the World Cup instead. Still, he didn’t need any more reminders of his failures. If things had gone differently—if he’d stepped up and scored goals and done more—he might be the one preparing for a match the next day. Instead, what was he doing? Lounging around a house that wasn’t his in a city he only pretended he lived in and watching his friends play their matches on television.

Beside Vincent a phone buzzed, and Ben shifted around to slide his mobile out of the pocket of his shorts.

“He’s on his way.”

“What?” Vincent asked, narrowing his eyes at Ben. “How—?”

“ _Benjamin_!” Coco exclaimed, leaning almost comically into the vowels of Ben’s name as he drawled it out in exaggeratedly accented English. “You are not supposed to tell him we are here. It will spoil the surprise.”

“I didn’t. Not in so many words, at any rate. I sent him a message earlier asking if he was back in town and wanted to get together. He just got back to me and said quote ‘Just landed. On my way home. Can we catch up later?’ So I figure that means he’ll be here soon enough.”

Vincent decided to ignore the twinge of annoyance that rose up inside him. Why had Christian texted Ben back the first chance he got, but somehow still hadn’t seen fit to return any of Vincent’s messages?

He probably had his reasons, whatever they were. Better to focus on the positives.

Christian was on his way home.

Any minute now he’d walk through the door, and Vincent couldn’t wait to see his face—his expression flickering through surprise into a shy smile and ending with an inevitable eyeroll and shake of his head at all the fuss they’d made.

Vincent tried to remain casual and nonchalant as he clambered up from the sofa and slid into the entryway, but from the look Ben gave him—eyebrows raised, mouth in a half smirk—he assumed he’d failed.

“Someone’s in a rush, then. What’s your hurry? It’s not as though he’s standing at the front door.”

“I…” Vincent said. He thought about trying to come up with some sort of justification for his haste—saying he needed to run upstairs for a minute or he wanted to double check something around the house. Instead, he just shook his head and continued out the doorway without reply.

It took him approximately five minutes to regret this decision.

At this time of day, it would take Christian the better part of an hour to make his way home from the airport. This left Vincent milling around the entryway trying to find a place to stand that didn’t imply he’d spent all afternoon waiting for Christian to arrive.

He considered leaning against the long wooden table that lay along the wall opposite the door just below the welcome home banner, but they’d arranged the balloons around it, and the most likely outcome was Vincent ending up hopelessly tangled in balloon strings. Besides he wasn’t sure anyone could pull off a casual lean beside a month’s worth of unread post without looking like they'd been, what was the phrase the English football announcers liked to use? Right. Loitering with intent.

_Oh, hello, Christian. I just happened to be standing here staring down at the stack of catalogues and advertisements that piled up while you were away. You know, like one does on a Friday afternoon._

After making a few more loops around the room, he decided to take a seat on the narrow staircase leading to the upper floor of the house. From there he would hear a car pulling up outside and could easily leap to his feet and pass off his lurking in the entryway as him having just come in to investigate the noise.

It took approximately fifteen minutes for him to regret _this_ decision.

He’d started out perched on the edge of the bottom step, feet on the floor, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands. This had worked just fine until his legs had started to tingle, both from the press of elbows into his legs from above and the hard wooden floor against his ass from below.

He shifted around, leaning back a bit and stretching his legs out in front of him, but this resulted in the edge of the step above digging painfully into his spine.

One more shift and he sat forward again, scooting back a little on the step but leaving his legs splayed out in front. That was comfortable enough, all things considered. Only now, the smooth cotton of his chino shorts kept slipping across the polished wood of the step, making him have to grab at the metal posts of the railing to keep from sliding off the step and onto the floor below.

By the time Christian did arrive home, Vincent would either be paralyzed from the waist down until he managed to regain the feeling in his legs, or, worse, in his scramble to get up, he’d lose his grip on the railing, slide arse over elbows off the stairs, and end up sprawled on his backside at Christian’s feet.

Neither position was going to be an even marginally attractive way to welcome Christian back.

Fixing the staircase with a glare, he hoisted himself to his feet, taking a few extra seconds to lean on the railing and let the blood circulate back into his legs before making his way back into the living room to flop back onto the sofa between his friends.

“Welcome back,” Ben started, voice laced with the teasing tone that meant he was most definitely preparing for a wind-up.

Vincent cut him off with a flick his hand. “Not a word.”

He leaned forward, grabbed the television remote from the table, and turned the television volume back up a few clicks, then leaned back into the sofa, arms crossed over his chest.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, mate,” Ben said, flashing Vincent another wide grin before settling back into the sofa himself.


	5. Chapter 5

What felt like days later, Vincent finally heard the unmistakable jangle of keys in the lock and the click of the front door swinging open.

Ben and Coco jerked their heads towards the sound, their movements synchronised nearly to the point of advance coordination, then rose from where they were seated on the sofa and headed out of the room to greet Christian.

Vincent forced himself to take a deep breath and linger behind for a moment. He wanted nothing more than to rush to Christian, drag him close, and kiss him until their lips were bruised and their jaws aching, but Ben and Coco were here, so that would have to wait.

He closed his eyes, counting to ten, willing himself to remain calm and distant--nothing more than a friend Christian had taken in until life decided where it would toss him next.

“¡ _Sorpresa_!” Coco yelled out in the other room.

This was followed by a shocked “What the hell?” from Christian.

“Welcome home, mate. And, you know, the rest of what that says,” Ben answered, presumably pointing at the banner hanging overhead.

“Um…thanks?” Christian responded. “What are you…? Why…?”

Vincent finally let himself slide off the sofa and duck around the corner to the entryway. He hesitated there, anchoring himself against the solid wood of the doorframe. He hoped he looked calm and casual and not at all like someone who was digging caverns into his palms with his fingernails to keep from rushing to Christian and sweeping him up into his arms.

Christian stood half in and half out of the front door, sunlight pooling around him and sparking off the scraps of foil confetti now littering the floor at his feet.

Vincent’s eyes were drawn to him, to the exclusion of everything else. The odd hiss of tires and chirping of birds drifting in from outside and the voices on the television behind him all faded away to the background.

His face was covered with a few day’s growth of beard, skin tanned from days spent on the training pitch; fine blonde hairs on his arm glinting gold in the light. He was dressed for travel in a plain white T-shirt and dark jeans, his feet shoved into a pair of black Nike trainers, backpack strapped across his shoulders, a black bill cap pulled down to shade his eyes.

He scanned the room, taking in the scene with wide eyes. When his gaze landed on the red and silver metallic balloons lined up beneath the banner to spell out #CE10, he let out a short huff of a laugh.

“This is…I mean…” He shook his head, looking first at Coco, then at Ben. “Hello?”

Coco flashed him a grin and flung both arms out wide in a grand, sweeping gesture. “Welcome home, _amigo_. It is good to see you.”

He reached into the bag hanging off his right arm and tossed another handful of the foil squares at Christian. They showered around him in a glittering red and silver cascade. Several pieces caught on the bill of his cap; others fused themselves to the light sheen of sweat on his forearms.

Christian made a noise like an angry cat and backed away, shaking his head and rubbing at his arms to dislodge the stray scraps of confetti.

Coco took the opportunity to dart forward and hug Christian, pressing kisses to both of his cheeks, then grabbing him by the shoulders and holding him at arm’s length. He looked him up and down like a parent assessing the state of an estranged child. “How are you? Are you well?”

“I’m…a bit overwhelmed at the moment,” Christian said, blinking at Coco a few times. “But otherwise…fine. This is all very…” he paused, biting at his bottom lip for a second. “What did you do to my house?”

He blurted out the last question with a surprised laugh, his gaze now drifting to the string of Danish flags wrapped around the banister to his left.

“We wanted to give you a bit of a welcome,” Ben said, taking his turn to step forward and wrap Christian in a hug. “It was all Vincent’s idea, so if you have any complaints you can take them up with him.”

“Oh.” Christian jerked his head up at the mention of Vincent’s name. He scanned the room once more until his eyes locked on Vincent, making Vincent’s entire body quiver. “Vincent. I didn’t…”

They stared at one another for a long moment, neither of them daring to move. Vincent felt the space between them as an insistent pull, tugging at his chest to drag him towards Christian and away from the comforting press of the door frame against his back.

He shoved forward, willing himself to keep his pace slow.

“ _Welkom thuis_ ,” he said, speaking in Dutch, the sentiment meant for Christian’s ears and no one else’s.

“ _Bedankt_ ,” Christian responded automatically.

He still lingered in the doorway. Eyes wide, he shifted his weight to his back foot as Vincent took another step closer.

Vincent forced himself to breathe, to calm his pounding heart and press down the intense, aching need for Christian’s touch that flooded through his body.

Christian’s eyes still locked on his, guarded and uncertain.

Another step, then another, then a third, and Vincent had closed the distance between them.

And then his arms were around Christian—the back of his T-shirt damp with sweat, heat radiating out of his body and into Vincent’s chest as he gathered Christian close. Tilting his face down to drop into the space between Christian’s shoulder and neck, he inhaled, surrounding himself with the commingled scents of cologne and mint and sweat, the feel of Christian’s lean frame against his own, and the hitch of Christian’s breath against his neck.

This, of course, was enough to make his dick harden in his pants.

“ _Ik heb je gemist_ ,” Vincent said, keeping his voice at a low whisper, the sound buzzing and humming in the centimetre between his lips and Christian’s clavicle.

Christian’s whole body tensed for a moment before he ducked out of Vincent’s grip, backing away, one hand lifted palm out in the universal gesture for ‘stop’.

He took one step backward, then another, until he’d edged out the door into the bright light of the afternoon sun.

Another step, and he stumbled backward, nearly toppling over as his knees collided with the edge of the wheeled suitcase angled behind him on the steps.

He flailed both arms wildly, grabbing for the door handle but sailing wide of the mark, hand waving through nothing but air. On instinct, Vincent darted forward and flung an arm out, slinging it sideways to wrap around Christian’s waist.

The solid weight of Christian’s frame slammed into Vincent’s forearm, and Vincent yanked him in close. With the other arm, he braced against the door frame to keep from being dragged along with Christian’s momentum. The corner jabbed painfully against his wrist, but he pressed his weight into it anyway, holding them both fast.

They ended up suspended halfway in and halfway out of the front door, Christian perched on the edge of his suitcase, one hand wrapped around the back of Vincent’s head, the other resting on Vincent’s left knee where he straddled Christian’s leg. His body pumped heat into Vincent’s skin, his fingers curling into Vincent’s hair.

From behind, Coco let out a shrill whistle followed by a shout of approval. “¡ _Muy bien, Vincente_! You’ve swept the princess off her feet and saved the day.”

Ben gave a resounding laugh, and Vincent was about to say something appropriately sarcastic in response when Christian squirmed in his arms, creating a drag of friction against the underside of Vincent’s still-hard dick that made his entire body shudder, his vision flickering white at the edges.

“Oh, fuck, Chris,” he managed to gasp out, squeezing his eyes shut and sucking in a breath to steady himself.

“Vincent,” Christian breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. “This is…”

“I know. Just…hold still for a minute. I need…”

What he needed was to close the few remaining centimetres of distance between them and kiss Christian—deep and hungry and filled with every single drop of the aching desire pulsing through his body. Christian in his arms, their bodies pressed together, his breath ghosting across Vincent’s cheek.

“I…would really like to kiss you right now,” Vincent said, still speaking low, whispered Dutch, their faces close enough for Vincent to see the sweep of Christian’s eyelashes along his cheek.

Before he could follow this up with a “but I know I cannot”, Christian’s face paled and he jerked away from Vincent, pressing both hands against his chest and shoving him towards the house.

The motion caught Vincent off guard and he fell backward. He reached out with his right arm and just about managed to grab hold of the door frame with his fingertips, hot edge digging in painfully as he held fast to keep from toppling over. His left arm was still firmly wrapped around Christian’s waist, however, and he dragged Christian along with him, their bodies once again colliding as they both staggered over the threshold into the house. Too hot hands rested against Vincent’s chest, the brim of Christian’s cap bumping against Vincent’s forehead.

Slow clapping echoed out from behind them, increasing gradually to the speed of outright applause.

“Not the cleanest landing, mind, but the Welsh judge will still give you a nine.”

Neither of them moved for a few moments. Christian had turned his face away—colour now returned with a vengeance as he flushed bright pink—staring down at the floor or off towards the wall; anywhere but at Vincent.

Again, he shifted, and this time Vincent let him go, peeling his fingers out of their vice grip on Christian’s hip bone. He moved slowly, giving them both time to regain their balance before splitting apart.

Christian scrambled backwards, putting even more distance between them.

After a beat, he huffed out a breath and straightened up, meticulously fixing his face back into its controlled mask of indifferent calm.

“Ah, so…” He cleared his throat. “I…need to…”

He dragged out the last word, turning his head side to side, searching for anything at all he could use as a diversion.

His eyes eventually found the staircase and he nodded, pointing his index finger in the air as though he’d just had a brilliant idea.

“Vincent,” he said, still decidedly not looking in Vincent’s direction. “Do you think you might…?”

He gestured towards the oversize roll-aboard suitcase sitting abandoned on the front step, door still propped open against its edge. “Could you help me take these things upstairs?”

Vincent tracked the movement of Christian’s hand, leaning over to peer around the door. Ordinarily, Christian had no trouble carrying the lone suitcase up and down the stairs on his own.

“ _Gaat alles goed_?”

He turned back towards Christian and looked him up and down, trying to find any visible sign of injury he might somehow have missed while their bodies were pressed up against each other.

Christian ignored the question and turned to retrieve his luggage from the front step, then close and latch the door. “Just…take this and meet me upstairs, okay?”

His tone was calm, but still forceful. The looks he was flashing Vincent significant, but what did he—?

 _Oh_. Vincent’s brain finally caught up. _OH_.

His breath hitched as he scrambled forwards, moving at the same time as Christian, their bodies bumping together once more—press of shoulder into shoulder and the hot brush of Christian’s hand against his own as they both grabbed for the handle of the suitcase.“I’ll be down to join you soon. Although, I don’t think I will be much fun tonight, sorry. I’m a bit…tired. From my travels.”

“I hope you’re at least hungry,” Ben said. “Vincent here had me pick up enough food to feed a small village.”

“You…what?” He flashed Vincent a confused look before shaking his head. “Never mind. _Kom je mee_?”


	6. Chapter 6

Christian trailed a hand along the string of paper Denmark flags twined around the handrail, then shifted his weight, pulling his hand away and turning his face towards the wall. Vincent followed a step behind him, his whole body buzzing. Christian, of all people, didn’t really mean to drag Vincent into bed while his friends sat waiting for them in the room below, did he?

Then again, if Christian was as on edge as Vincent was right now, he might not care.

It was either slip away upstairs and take care of this now or sit in a room together for the next two hours and pretend they weren’t about to explode every time they got within a metre of one another.

Given those options, anyone would choose door number one.

Christian didn’t say a word, or even turn to acknowledge Vincent’s presence as he climbed the final stair and took the few short steps down the hallway to his bedroom. Vincent trailed after him, suitcase still in one hand, muscles in his forearm starting to burn with the prolonged weight of it. When he reached the landing, he dropped it to the floor, grabbing the handle and dragging it into the main bedroom, the plastic wheels clicking out a rhythm against the smooth wooden floor.

Vincent’s hand trembled as he reached behind him to shut the door, making a series of frantic swipes behind his back until his fingers found the cool metal of the handle. He shoved at it, and the door swung shut with a loud * _thud_ * that echoed in the quiet space, making both of them wince.

“ _Christiaan_. I’ve missed you so much, _Lieveke_.”

The words stuttered out of him on a gasp of breath and then he was darting forward to wrap his arms around Christian’s lean frame.

His back was still damp, his skin hot and sticky with sweat. Vincent pressed him close, burying his face against the curve of Christian’s neck and taking time to revel in the scent of him—sweat and the stale, sterile smell of airplane overtaken by mint and citrus and liquorice and the earthy, woody spice of his cologne—the scent Vincent had come to think of as home.

He pressed a kiss to Christian’s neck above his clavicle, swiping his tongue against skin and tasting salt.

“Mm, _lekker_ ,” Vincent murmured, kissing his way up to Christian’s jaw and letting out a contented sigh at the scrape of beard against his skin.

The brim of Christian’s cap bumped at the top of Vincent’s head as he moved, and he reached up and tugged if off, tossing it away somewhere before sliding over to skim his lips against Christian’s.

A whisper of breath between them and Christian’s mouth slid open, his tongue licking into Vincent’s mouth as he returned the embrace. His fingertips digging grooves into Vincent’s spine. The air around them humid and close, their bodies hot and damp as they pressed together.

Kisses wet and deep and hungry, Christian nipping at his lower lip and sucking on his tongue, his hands reaching up to tug at Vincent’s hair.

Vincent skimmed fingertips along Christian’s hip bones, tangling them in the hem of his T-shirt before dipping beneath the smooth fabric to run along Christian’s skin, slick with sweat and burning like fire.

Christian let out a ragged moan then pulled back, breaking their kiss with a wet * _pop_ *.

“We should…” he started, his voice breathless, his chest heaving against Vincent’s as he gasped for air. “Fuck…”

“I can not possibly agree more,” Vincent said, drawing Christian back in, groan escaping his lips at the press of Christian’s rigid cock against his thigh.

He reached between their bodies, fingers fumbling at the button on Christian’s jeans.

Before he could slip his other hand down to tear at the fabric, Christian stepped back, breaking body contact, the absence of his added warmth leaving Vincent’s skin almost chilled, despite the heat of the day.

At least, Vincent thought as he blinked his eyes open, Christian had the decency to look as absolutely wrecked as Vincent felt. His skin was flushed pink and gleaming with sweat, his hair plastered flat against his head and damp around the margins, his chest heaving. His eyes the barest rim of blue around dark pupils, his lips red and swollen and shining with their shared saliva in the rays of sun flooding the room.

“ _Christiaan_?” he managed to choke out between deep, sucking breaths—trying to move air into his lungs and oxygen back into his brain. “What’s wrong?”

In an instant, Christian slid back into his default state of careful control. Vincent had to wonder how he managed it—the two of them standing less than half a metre apart, both in an obvious state of arousal, and Christian as calm as you’d like, as though he’d just remembered he needed to pick something up the next time he went out.

Vincent, meanwhile, still dizzy and stupid as he waited for all the blood that had rushed to his groin to kindly hurry up and redistribute through the rest of his body.

Christian ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, trying to tug it into place, but only making it worse, the sides and front now sticking out at odd angles.

“Let me, _Lieveke_ ,” Vincent said, resigning himself to palming his cock through the fabric of his shorts to rearrange it into a more comfortable position.

With his other hand, he reached over to smooth Christian’s hair back into place. Christian frowned and swatted his hand away, then dropped to one knee and reached around Vincent’s ankles to retrieve his cap from where it had fallen.

He shoved it onto his head, then turned towards the backpack he’d dropped at his feet and began pulling out its contents one by one—headphones, laptop, the iPad he liked to use as an eReader on his flights, a spare T-shirt and hoodie.

The electronics he gathered together and deposited atop the tall, wooden chest of drawers nestled into the corner beside the wardrobe. Vincent used to tease him about his need to make sure everything was tucked away somewhere safe ‘just in case,’ as Christian liked to put it. But after a few close calls with feet tangling in backpack straps and sending Christian’s laptop spinning into the base of the wall as they fumbled their way towards the bed, Vincent had to admit the practice made a lot of sense.

When Christian moved on to hanging up the spare T-shirt and hoodie and then perched on the edge of the mattress to sort out the contents of his toilet kit, Vincent dropped down to sit beside him.

Christian blinked at him with the look of clueless, wide-eyed innocence he’d learned to affect whenever he didn’t feel like dealing with something serious.

“ _Christiaan_.”

A long silence dragged between them, Christian’s eyes on the floor as he absentmindedly chewed at his lower lip—and honestly, was he trying to see how long Vincent could hold out in a state of intense sexual frustration before he said damn the consequences and tackled him to the mattress?

When he finally spoke, his voice came out low and small. “Why are Ben and Coco here?”

“What? Oh,” Vincent said. “I thought…it might be nice to come home to some friends.”

He reached out and took both of Christian’s hands, twining their fingers together, their palms slick with sweat. “Or, well. That’s not strictly true. I wanted to do something nice to welcome you home. To show you that I’m proud of you. Ben and Coco helped me with the planning and it seemed rude not to invite them.”

Vincent gave Christian’s hands a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll admit that I didn’t exactly think through what their presence here would mean for…us. I can ask them to leave. If you want.”

Christian’s head jerked upward, their faces close enough together that Vincent could see the flecks of green and grey cutting through the bright blue of his eyes, even under the shadow of his cap. “What? No. They’ve come all the way here to welcome me home. I can’t ask them to leave now.”

He closed his eyes and ducked his head, curling into himself and taking a few breaths before straightening back up and meeting Vincent’s gaze. “A little warning would have been nice. I’m just…I’m tired and I wasn’t ready for all…this.”

 _And how was I supposed to give you any warning when you couldn’t even be bothered to return my messages?_ Vincent wanted to ask, but now wasn’t the time. Christian had just arrived home from six weeks of travel and training and matches to find a house full of people he wasn’t expecting. Vincent supposed he could understand his annoyance at the situation.

He sucked in a deep breath and focused on letting it all out slowly. Christian clearly needed space, and Vincent would give it even if it killed him.

Which from the way things were going seemed more likely to happen than not.

“Okay, well,” he said. “I should go back downstairs then. The match has probably started, and, as you say, I did invite them here. We shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

He climbed to his feet and took a few steps towards the door, his movements slow. One foot a few centimetres behind the other as he crept backwards, waiting for Christian to say something—to call him back, offer him some explanation of what he wanted, anything at all.

It wasn’t until he’d run out of room, his shoulder bumping against the door frame, that Christian finally spoke.

“Vincent, wait.”

Vincent paused, arm twisted around behind him, hand resting on the cool metal latch.

Christian didn’t move, still perched on the edge of the bed with the contents of his toilet kit strewn around him.

“Can you…tell them I’ll be down for the second half? I want to finish sorting this and then wash up a little.”

“I really can ask them to leave,” Vincent said. “If you’re tired and not feeling up for it. I think they will understand. You and I can lay in the bed and watch the match on my laptop.”

Christian shook his head and gave Vincent a forced half smile. “No. I just need a few minutes, that’s all. I will see you downstairs.”

* * *

Vincent stared at the closed wooden door for a few seconds, trying to catch his breath and regain his composure before he headed downstairs to join Ben and Coco.

Whatever he’d expected when Christian had insisted he join him upstairs, it certainly hadn’t been…whatever just happened.

His whole body felt tight; a compressed coil ready to spring outward at any moment. His dick, which had been half hard since the first brush of Christian’s skin against his own, was still pressed uncomfortably against the front of his shorts.

How did Christian expect him to just sit and watch football with his friends in this state? The second their hands accidentally brushed together it would be all Vincent could do not to drag Christian right back up here and fuck him senseless.

Either that, or excuse himself to take care of the issue on his own.

Which…he peered into the open door to the spare room, contemplating how long it would take him to remedy this particular situation. Vincent wasn’t one for a casual jerk off, especially not with Christian in the next room and his friends just downstairs, but in this case it might be the only way he was going to get through the next few hours.

Sounds of the match drifted up the stairs—indecipherable commentary over a wall of chants and crowd noise, interspersed by the occasional whistle or shout.

Vincent glanced at his watch; twenty past eight. Ben and Coco had been waiting for close to half an hour already, and while Vincent didn’t expect it would take long to address his problems, he didn’t need to be away any longer than he already had been.

He gave one last look towards the spare room, then blew out a long, slow breath and settled for slipping into the bathroom and splashing his face with half a basin’s worth of the coldest water he could coax from the tap. It didn’t completely solve matters, but at least he could probably sit on the sofa without everyone seeing exactly what state he was in.

He dried his face and tried to rearrange his hair into order once again. Between the heat of the day, Christian fisting his hands through it as they kissed, the sweat he’d worked up, and the cold water bath, he was looking more than a little worse for wear, but he supposed there was nothing for it short of taking another full shower.

Hair mostly sorted, his T-shirt stained a deeper blue around the collar from all the water, Vincent took one last deep breath and headed downstairs.


	7. Chapter 7

Vincent leaned forward, peering around the corner into the living room. His entire body was still tight and buzzing with the events of the past hour, and he wasn’t at all sure he was ready to sit down beside his friends and resume his role as Christian’s completely platonic charity case temporary roommate. 

He blew out a long, slow breath, then cut across the entryway to bypass the living room, and head through the door that led directly into the kitchen. He couldn’t avoid settling down to watch the match forever, but at least he could postpone it for a while longer. 

Skirting the kitchen island, he reached up to open the cupboard and found that someone had retrieved the plates and placed them in a neatly stacked pile on the counter. If he’d been a good host, he would have already taken the time to set out the crockery and arrange the food for easy access. He hadn’t of course. He could blame it on Christian whisking him away so quickly he hadn’t gotten the chance, but the truth was he’d never been any good at thinking about these sorts of things, not in the way Christian was. 

Thankfully, from the looks of things, Ben and Coco had taken Christian at his word and made themselves at home without Vincent’s help. The bag of bread lay open in the centre of the kitchen island beside the cardboard box filled with assorted pastries, a few clearly missing from the collection. 

Vincent opened the refrigerator, peering down at the wrapped trays he and Ben had wedged in earlier. They’d clearly been disturbed, several of the rows of neatly arranged meats and vegetables now disheveled and out of place, although plenty of food still remained. 

He slid out the platters—sliced roast beef, ham, and chicken along with plates of cold smoked fish, several varieties of cheese, boiled egg with scallion and assorted vegetables for garnish—and set them on the kitchen island beside the bag of half-sized rye breads. 

He’d never fancied himself a chef, or even particularly adept in the kitchen, but sandwiches—in whatever form—were easy enough, and he quickly developed a rhythm of sorts. Lift one slice of the sturdy brown bread from the bag, the sour, yeasty smell of it taking him back to his childhood in the Netherlands where thinly sliced rye bread had been a staple of many meals. 

Next, a thick smear of butter, mayonnaise, horseradish, or crème fraiche before finishing off with meats and the vegetable garnish. 

He took his time with it, lingering over the ingredients and trying to determine which flavours would work well together. Ordinarily, he would have just grabbed some of everything and sorted it out later, assembling the sandwiches as he went and hoping he didn’t end up with something inedible. But the longer he spent sequestered away in here, the more time he’d have to catch his breath before settling in and pretending he wasn’t regretting every decision he’d made that had led to Ben and Coco being here. 

From the living room, the sounds of the match shifted to the orchestral music that signified the end of the half. This was followed by the rustle and creak of furniture and the clink of cutlery against plates as his friends presumably gathered up the remnants of their meal. 

Vincent dropped a final garnish of chives onto another sandwich—this one with horseradish, asparagus, and a few slices of roast beef. He had to shift everything around the plate to wedge it in beside the others. Somehow, without realising, he’d ended up making twelve of the miniature sandwiches. 

“Vincent,” Ben called out a second before he appeared around the corner into the kitchen, arms laden with plates, forks, and knives. “I didn’t expect you back so soon. What are you doing in here, making a five-course—?” 

He stopped short as he caught sight of Vincent’s overflowing plate. “Oh, you rather are, aren’t you?” 

“Not exactly,” Vincent said, eyeing the platter of sandwiches. “I…made some for Christian as well. He’s just gotten done with a day of travel so I am certain he will want to eat.” 

“Hm, probably.” Ben ducked around Vincent to stab at a slice of roast beef with his fork. “Where is Christian anyway? Don't tell me you wore him out already? Honestly, I didn't expect to see either of you back down here for the rest of the evening. Especially not looking so…put together, as it were. I’m impressed.” 

"Whaa—" Vincent started, and then felt his face flush hot as he realised exactly what Ben was suggesting had happened upstairs. 

Which, funnily enough, was exactly what _hadn’t_ happened upstairs. 

“I… No. It’s not…” he managed to stutter out. 

“Right. Of course.” Ben gave him a knowing smile and tapped his index finger along the side of his nose. 

And... was Ben implying that he somehow _knew_ about Vincent and Christian’s relationship? 

Vincent’s involuntary, sharp intake of breath sent saliva the wrong way down his windpipe, causing him to erupt into a violent coughing fit. Chest and throat burning, he squeezed his eyes shut, bent over double, and flapped one head in front of his face in some sort of futile gesture meant to wave air into his lungs. The coughs kept coming, though, his ribs aching with the force of them, and he dropped his other hand to his knee, sucking in air in an attempt to force breath back into his lungs. 

Eventually, the coughs slowed to weak sputters and chokes. Vincent straightened up and took a few staggering steps, his head spinning and his vision black at the edges as his body righted itself. He felt the solid edge of the kitchen counter against his back and leaned against it, pressing in until the sharp corner bit into his spine. 

“Alright mate?” 

Ben’s face was the first thing he saw as he eased his eyes open and his vision slid into focus. 

He was leaning forward, his back arched and his head tipped to the side, staring up at Vincent with pale blue eyes shot through with streaks of grey. 

“Yes,” Vincent said, swiping at the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand. “Or…well…” 

What was he supposed to do? Slide into Christian’s tactic of wide-eyed innocence and pretend he had no idea what Ben was talking about? That might work for some, but Vincent was sure that no matter how hard he tried to hold everything in, his reaction and his face had long since given him away. 

His brain spun in a thousand directions at once, question after question stacking up. 

When he finally managed to speak around the knot in his throat all that came out was a still breathless, “ _Godverdamme_.” 

Ben flashed him a reassuring grin, then reached behind Vincent to where a dozen or so bottles of beer, assorted juices, and sparkling waters bobbed in an ice bath. He lifted a beer out of the sink, popped open the top with a bottle opener he’d produced from somewhere, and handed it to Vincent. 

“You look like you need this. Well, you look like you need something a bit stronger, but you’ll have to call Coco in for that. I’m afraid all I’d manage to do is fix you a cup of tea and pretend it will magically make all your problems vanish.” 

Vincent gratefully accepted the bottle from Ben and took a few swallows, closing his eyes and letting himself breathe as the cool liquid slid down his still irritated throat. He took his time, sipping it and then letting things settle before taking another drink. His body and mind were starting to calm, but there was no harm in letting his brain play catch up. 

He heaved out one last breath, puffing out his cheeks and releasing air in a slow, steady stream, then flicked his eyes open and looked over at Ben. 

Vincent had always told himself that it was for Christian’s sake that he worked so hard to hide their relationship from friends and teammates. But judging by his still racing pulse and the way the beer was churning in his stomach, he had more than a few concerns of his own about the news getting out. 

Honestly, he had surprised himself with his visceral reaction to what might have been nothing more than a casual, teasing statement—a bit of harmless banter between friends. Most people would have passed it off with the requisite laugh— _You Brits, always taking the piss. That was the correct expression, right?_ — He could have fired back a line of his own or shrugged and said nothing and let Ben make his own conclusions. Instead…well. He supposed he'd either all but confirmed Ben's suspicions or else he'd come off as a seriously homophobic asshole. 

Given those choices, he'd much rather Ben assume the former. All things considered. 

They stood in silence, side-by-side in nearly identical leans against the counter. 

Thumping bass beats and electronic dance music drifted in from the living room, the soundtrack to one of the handful of advertisements the television broadcast circulated through during their World Cup coverage. 

To the left, from near the front entry came the creak of floorboards and the muffled sound of water running in the basin—probably Coco washing his hands in Christian’s guest toilet. 

Vincent took another slow swallow of beer, then another, then another until he tipped the last drops from the bottom of the bottle into his mouth. He set it down on the counter behind him and reached for another. A bad idea on many levels, he knew, but if anything could be classified as extenuating circumstances that required multiple beers in the span of ten minutes, it was this. 

He leaned around Ben for the bottle opener, pressed it down to lift the top, the loud hiss and snap echoing out through the stillness of the room, and took another drink. 

“So…" he started, unsure of exactly where he meant his question to go next. 

"So…" Ben echoed, both of them falling back into tense silence. 

"Does Christian know?” Vincent asked after what felt like an eternity, finally managing to give voice to one of the many questions spinning around in his mind. 

Beside him, Ben let out a loud snort. He ducked his head and pressed a fist to his mouth before giving up and bursting into full-throated laughter, his whole body shaking with it. 

“Mate,” he managed to gasp out between laughs. “I’d certainly hope he knows. Otherwise I think you’ve probably been doing several things very wrong.” 

“Ha,” Vincent responded, rolling his eyes and giving Ben’s shoulder a shove. “I have no idea why I’m friends with any of you. You’re all…wind-up merchants, the lot of you. ” 

“Sorry mate,” Ben said, his voice still shaking with tiny laughs. “I didn’t mean to…” 

Vincent held up a hand. “No, no. It was nothing. You are correct after all. If Christian doesn’t know then I’m not sure what I’ve been doing for all this time.” 

In truth, Ben’s reaction had caused something to release deep inside of Vincent. His friend had taken the news in stride and turned it into just another joke at Vincent’s expense, as though his unintentional revelation hadn’t been something momentous or scandalous or even all that interesting. Just another day. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

Ben stared at him for a moment, eyes wide, then he erupted into laughter once more. 

Vincent joined in this time, the two of them nearly bent double with it, Ben resting a hand on Vincent’s shoulder. Vincent reached out for the kitchen island to steady himself, but missed, nearly toppling them both to the floor. 

This, of course, started them in on a whole new round of laughter, both of them gasping and choking, Vincent’s chest aching and his eyes stinging with tears. 

“What’s so funny?” 

Vincent, chest still aching as he tried to catch his breath, straightened up, wiped at the corners of his eyes, and opened them to see Christian lingering in the doorway to the kitchen. He was dressed in athletic shorts and a different white T-shirt, his hair now combed into submission and still damp around the fringes. 

“Christian,” Vincent said, desperately willing his brain to come up with something other than _Ben knows we’re together and I might have accidentally implied that you had no idea we’d been fucking this whole time_. “Um…” 

“Vincent’s struggling with sandwich making,” Ben said, gesturing towards the plate, toppings threatening to escape their tiny breads and spill over onto the counter. “He apparently never learned to half do things.” 

“You what? Since when do you…oh, that’s…a lot,” Christian let out a laugh as he stared down at the platter. “What is all of this?” 

“ _Smorrebrød_ ,” Vincent replied. He did his best to wrap his mouth around the Danish syllables, but judging by the half smirk that crossed Christian’s face, he’d managed to make a mess of it, as usual. “From the place you like. I thought…it might be nice to have some food in your honour. I have no idea what I’m doing, but hopefully I got at least some of it right.” 

He lifted the plate off the kitchen island, moving slowly and deliberately so the tiny sandwiches didn’t go skating off it and onto the floor. He’d carry it out to the living room, then come back in and slot the trays back into position in the fridge. 

Christian shrugged, but said nothing. Instead, he shifted direction, swung around the kitchen island, swiped a bottle of fruit juice from the sink, and headed towards the living room. “Now. Someone fill me in on the first half. I need to know at least enough to convince the lads I sat here and gave their match my full attention.” 


	8. Chapter 8

Vincent shuffled into the living room cradling the plate of sandwiches against his chest. They threatened to escape their confines with every step he took until he ended up using a combination of his left forearm and the side of the beer bottle dangling between the fingers of his left hand to block them. It wasn’t exactly conventional, and he almost certainly didn’t have a future as a waiter if his football career flopped, but as long as he could navigate his way to the sofa without spilling anything he’d count it as a win. 

Ahead of him, Ben had resumed his usual stream of chatter. From the sounds of things, he’d taken Christian’s request for updates to mean he’d like a detailed recounting of every second of the first half, but his words were too rapid-fire for Vincent to parse while concentrating on not spilling. 

He was so focused that he didn’t notice the pair had come to a stop beside the sofa until he nearly collided with Christian for a third time that afternoon. 

Thankfully, Christian jumped backwards at the first brush of Vincent’s elbow against his arm, allowing Vincent to skirt past him without losing any of his charges. He ended up with a smear of mayonnaise across the inside of his forearm for his efforts, but he supposed it was better than having to spend the next fifteen minutes wiping food off himself, Christian, and the living room floor. 

He fumbled a bit with his burden, but somehow managed to shift his grip on his beer bottle without dropping either it or the sandwiches then set it down so he could grip the plate with both hands. Everything secured, he lowered himself into an odd half-crouch, holding the plate steady and level on its descent. 

Once everything was settled into place, he shifted his weight from heels to toes, reaching behind him until his hands skimmed against smooth leather. He hoisted himself backward and wriggled his way onto the sofa, taking up the spot nearest the door that he’d come to think of as “his.” 

It was odd, him feeling proprietary about a place on the sofa, of all things. Sure, he’d spent his fair share of evenings leaned into the corner where the arm met the back cushions, Christian’s head resting against his chest, but he’d be willing to bet that any number of people had occupied this space with far more regularity than he had over the years. 

Coco was already seated at the other end, slouched into the cushions with legs outstretched in front of him. 

“I wonder if you have enough sandwiches,” he said, voice mock serious. “I think you may need to go back and make more. 

“Ha,” Vincent replied. “Yes, yes. Vincent clearly has no idea what an appropriate amount of food is. It is true. But I made some for Christian as well, so...” 

Beside him Christian let out a low humming noise from somewhere in his throat. 

Vincent glanced at him and found him staring down at the sofa. Neither he nor Ben were making any effort to sit, both of them lingering about at the fringes of the space. He flashed what he hoped was a reassuring smile and tipped his head to the left towards the unoccupied centre seat, signaling for Christian to join him. 

Ben took a step back, giving Christian room to slip around him into the space, but Christian moved towards the kitchen and away from the sofa, giving no indication that he’d even seen Vincent’s gesture. 

Generally speaking, Christian didn’t entertain large groups of people. When he did, they tended to congregate in the garden or around the table in the conservatory rather than in the living room with a good view of the television. This meant that although he did own more seating than just this sofa, most of it was tucked away around the periphery of the room to be moved about as needed. 

It was this that he made for, lifting one of the paired leather armchairs from its spot overlooking the back garden and carrying it over. He slid it into place in front of the table, angling it towards the television. 

Ben started moving towards the chair, clearly assuming Christian would set it down for him then take his place beside Vincent. When Christian dropped into the chair instead, wriggling around and adjusting the angle to find the best view, Ben flicked a questioning look at Vincent. 

Vincent shrugged, because what other response was there, and turned his legs to the side so Ben could slip past him and lower himself into the vacant seat between him and Coco. 

Christian’s seat. 

And there he was again, assigning ownership to seating positions as if this weren’t Christian’s house and he didn’t have a right to sit wherever he pleased. 

It was probably for the best, anyway, Christian electing to keep his distance. Vincent had just about managed to get his body back under control from the last time he and Christian had ended up in proximity to one another. There was no need for a repeat performance down here in front of everyone. 

Vincent leaned forward and lifted one of the sandwiches off the plate—thin sliced rare roast beef with a spread of horseradish and an asparagus tip. He took an over-large bite, ending up with nearly half the sandwich stuffed into his mouth. 

He chewed deliberately a few times, tears springing to the corners of his eyes as a sharp zip of horseradish burst up into the back of his nose, the burn of it cooling in an instant as it melded with the bitter asparagus and the juicy, salty, spice of the roast beef. He might not have any skills as a cook, but whomever had prepared the raw ingredients he’d been working with had definitely known their way around flavours. When he’d finished, he washed it down with a swallow of beer then immediately went back in for another bite, letting it roll around in his mouth and savouring the mingled tastes on his tongue. 

Beside him, Ben and Coco were tossing commentary back and forth, but he tuned it out, pressing himself into the cushions. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the match. For all their disagreements over the past few years, the Belgian trio had welcomed Vincent into their strange little family from the first day he’d arrived at Spurs and he wished them all well. 

When Christian had insisted on helping Vincent settle into the league, Mousa, Jan, and even Toby, however reluctantly, had joined in, all of them putting in extra hours on the training pitch to help Vincent find his feet. It hadn’t worked, of course, but he would always be grateful to them for the sacrifices they’d made. 

Their support didn’t stop there, either. Although they’d sometimes been more of a hindrance than a help as he tried to navigate his seemingly uncontrollable feelings for Christian, Mousa and Jan had always been willing to step in and talk him through things. They knew Christian like few others did, and Vincent wasn’t sure what he would have done without Jan’s knowing smiles and constant encouragement to “ _Just be patient. He’ll sort himself out_.” Usually echoed by Mousa’s wry laugh and “ _or he won’t_.” 

Now, here he was living in Christian’s house, ready to tuck himself neatly back into Christian’s life for a few weeks before the distance separated them once again. Only this time, Vincent welcomed the shift. 

They’d survived one year apart, and after that, he had faith that they could withstand anything life threw at them. 

Beside him, Coco yelled something about the Brazil national team that Vincent didn’t quite catch. 

Whatever it was, it caused Ben and Christian to both explode in laughter, Ben nearly bent double, his face bright red as he slammed a fist against his thigh. A glance over at Christian showed him leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting against his knees. He shook his head at Coco, even as he laughed along, the sound bright in Vincent’s ears and radiating through his bones. 

“So you say,” Chris said. “Isn’t there some saying? Never trust an Argentinian when it comes to Brazil.” 

This time it was Ben’s turn to shake his head. “Fairly sure there isn’t, but it’s true enough.” 

“Or,” Coco cut in. “Always trust. There is much history. We know things.” 

“Maybe,” Christian conceded. “I’m willing to accept that you might be correct this one time. Anyway they have no answer to Kevin and Eden, that much is for certain.” 

“Mate, who does?” Ben asked. “Honestly, I would say I’ve just given up trying, but…” 

“Oh, we are all aware of this,” Christian said, voice laced with the dry, bitter sarcasm he reserved for teasing those he cared about the most. 

“Yes,” Coco echoed. “This is why we are searching for a new left back, no?” 

Ben flashed them both rude gestures, but his face remained set in his usual, wide grin. 

“I’m glad really,” Vincent said, reaching out to snag another of the sandwiches, then nudging the platter a few centimetres closer to Christian. “Not playing in the league anymore means I don’t have to face DeBruyne. I can just sit back and appreciate his talents knowing I’ll never have to stop him doing anything. A gift, truly.” 

Everyone abruptly stopped laughing. Ben and Coco both turned their heads towards him, looking a bit unsure of how to react. Christian, meanwhile, sucked in a sharp breath then dropped his gaze to the floor. 

Good to see he still had the ability to grind all conversation in a room to a screaming halt. He’d previously thought it was a result of everyone being too polite to speak of his poor form and impending transfer, but apparently it applied whenever he brought such things up on his own, as well. 

“There is always the national team though, no?” Coco asked, voice more serious than it had been, but still light and teasing. “You cannot be free of him yet.” 

Vincent shrugged and flashed them all a grin. No sense in them knowing how close to the truth his words actually were. 

“With _Oranje_ , who knows? New team, new manager. So…perhaps. Or perhaps not. For now, I will enjoy watching you all try to stop an unstoppable attack and be glad it is not my responsibility.” 

Christian made a low, strangled noise in his throat that he somehow managed to turn into a convincing cough. He still wasn’t looking at Vincent, his eyes still glued to the floorboards. He squirmed a bit in his chair, hands fiddling at the bottle of juice until he twisted the cap off with a loud * _pop_ * that echoed out into the now quiet room. 

Someone—probably Coco, if Vincent had to guess—turned up the volume on the television, the bouncy, musical beats of the latest vehicle advertisement blaring out of the speakers surrounding them. 

Conversation clearly over, Vincent took a bite of his second sandwich—this one smoked salmon with crème fraîche, the sour bite of the cream mixing with the yeast of the bread and the sweet, smoky flavours of the fish in a way that made Vincent wonder if he might not have a career as a chef ahead of him after all. He took his time again, once more chewing slowly and savouring the taste and feel of each bite. No sense rushing back into a discussion of the match, given how quickly and thoroughly his attempts to participate had killed the previous exchange. 

He took a second bite, then a third. When he’d finished, he pushed the plate closer to the end of the table. 

“Eat, _Christiaan_ ,” he said.” 

“Hm?” Christian asked, visibly shaking himself out of whatever thoughts he’d been buried under and blinking up at Vincent. 

“You don’t…” Vincent started. “If you don’t want it, that is okay, I thought you might be hungry and I started making them. It all got a bit out of hand.” 

“Mate, it was out of hand the minute you somehow ordered enough food to keep the entire team fed for a week,” Ben said. 

“What?” Christian narrowed his eyes at them for a second, then shook his head. “Never mind. It’s fine, Vincent. I’ll eat it. Since you’ve already made them.” 

Christian reached out and slid one of the sandwiches off the tray. From the looks of things this one was roast chicken with a spread of mayonnaise and an herb garnish. He didn’t eat it straight away, instead staring down at it as though it might be somehow suspect. He narrowed his eyes slightly, his face threatening to twitch into a frown but quickly schooling itself into its too familiar blank look. 

Apparently it just about passed inspection, because he shrugged and took a tentative bite, the majority of the bread still balanced on his palm. 

Vincent studied his face for any kind of reaction as he chewed, but found none, Christian’s expression still carefully neutral. 

He swallowed, then immediately let out a dry, choking cough and grabbed for the bottle of juice resting on its drink mat atop the table. He nearly dropped the remainder of his sandwich while attempting to reach across his body and twist the top off one-handed. Vincent lunged for the juice, ready to come to Christian’s rescue, but before Vincent could grab it, Christian dropped the remainder of his sandwich to an open spot on the platter and lifted the bottle away. 

Several large gulps later, he set the bottle down and blew out a breath. His cheeks were flushed pink and Vincent could see tears glistening at the corners of his eyes, but he seemed none the worse for wear, thankfully. 

“Sorry,” Vincent said. “I didn’t…well, I mean…I thought they were good, but I suppose that you are the expert in these things. Or…at least moreso than I am, so…” 

“What?” Christian asked, finally turning to look at Vincent. “Oh. I just swallowed it a little sideways is all.” 

“You don’t have to eat it,” Vincent said. “If you don’t like it. I understand.” 

“Vincent, I said it’s fine,” Christian said. His words came out clipped and strained, a bit like a frazzled parent responding to a child’s tenth repetition of the same question. Vincent figured he’d do best to just drop the subject. 

Either Christian would eat the sandwiches or he wouldn’t. Whether he enjoyed them or not, he’d remain gracious—finish this one with a smile and try to pretend his frequent sips of juice weren’t just a means for him to wash the taste out of his mouth. He was too polite to do otherwise. 

On the television, the bouncy beats of the advertisement transitioned into the orchestral music that signified the resumption of the match. Christian shifted, settling back into his seat, the remainder of his sandwich left abandoned on the platter. 

He made no move to reclaim it, instead lowering his hand to rest atop his thigh as he turned his full attention to the match. 


	9. Chapter 9

“Right,” Ben said, leaning against the wall for support as he balanced on one foot and tugged his other foot into his trainer. “Thanks for everything, Christian. It’s good to have you back.” 

“Yes, well,” Christian said. “I rather wish it wouldn’t have been for a few more weeks, but…” 

Coco slid up to Christian’s side, wedging himself in-between Christian and Vincent and throwing an arm around Christian’s shoulders. “Of course, of course. But you have time off now, no? Why not take a vacation? Go somewhere beautiful. Beach and sun and sand. See the world. We’ll be here when you get back.” 

Christian gave a little half shrug and flicked his head to the side. “Hm, maybe. For tonight, I think I will just enjoy sleeping in my own bed. I’m worn out.” 

“Don’t let us keep you then,” Ben said. 

He gave Vincent a knowing smile before tugging the door open, flooding the room with the sounds of the London night—insects and birds chirping a steady backdrop to the occasional whir of an engine from the street beyond and the crunch of tires on paving stones. 

The heat of the day still lingered, even at this time of night, and Vincent found himself instinctively stepping backward in a futile attempt to get out of the wall of hot wind that swept in from outside. 

“Have a good night. Whatever you get up to,” Ben said. “See you Monday, Vincent.” 

Coco followed him outside, pausing just long enough to give Vincent and Christian both a series of air kisses to their cheeks before tipping his head in a gesture of goodbye, then stepping outside and pulling the door shut behind him, leaving Christian and Vincent alone at last. 

The comparative silence of the house was deafening as they stood in Christian’s entryway, just under a metre apart, completely alone with one another for the first time in weeks. Television now switched off, the only noises in the air were the faint chirps of the birds outside and the muffled whir of the dishwasher drifting out of the kitchen. 

They stayed there for what felt like hours, both of them staring over at each other, unsure of what to do now that their friends had left. Vincent was hoping, of course, that they might simply pick up where they’d left off upstairs, but Christian still seemed distant and withdrawn despite their relative solitude 

Vincent stepped back, opening up a bit more distance between them. He wasn’t sure of the reason for Christian’s discomfort, but since Christian had been doing his best to keep his distance from him all evening, he figured he might as well oblige. 

“I know I’ve said it a million times already, but here’s a million and one. I’m sorry. Again.” 

At the flash of Christian’s eyes, he added. “For all of this. Surprising you with a party when you didn’t want one. I just thought…well, I wanted to do something nice for you. To show you I am proud of you.” 

Christian’s whole body went tense at this, but he quickly regained his composure and let out a forced smile. 

“I…appreciate the thought, Vincent, I really do. It was a surprise, yes, but… I mean, really, you shouldn’t have. You being here…” he trailed off, chewing at his lower lip as he searched for the correct response—all grace and manners and politeness. Sometimes Vincent wished he’d just get angry and yell once in a while instead of hiding behind his too formal mask. 

The room slipped into silence once again, the air hanging heavy and close around them before Christian blew out a deep breath and spoke once more, his face now carefully arranged into its familiar blank expression. 

“Ben and Coco…what did you tell them?” 

Vincent narrowed his eyes to a squint as he stared over at Christian, trying to figure out exactly what he was trying to get at. 

“What did I tell them about what?” 

“About why you’re here.” Christian said, tone edging into exasperation as though it should have been perfectly clear what he was speaking of. 

“Oh,” Vincent replied with a shrug. “I told them the truth, of course. What else would I tell them?” 

Christian’s eyes widened into saucers in an instant, all the colour draining from his already pale face to make him look almost ghostly in the harsh, white light of the entryway. He took a stumbling step away from Vincent. 

“You told them...” he started, then sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. 

“Why would you tell them that? Why? You know we can’t just… You know the way of these things, Vincent. My feelings on it. If people find out… and what it means and… oh fuck.” 

The last bit came out razor sharp, Christian’s voice as harsh and angry as Vincent had ever seen him off of a football pitch. 

“If you’d calm down for half a second, I would explain,” Vincent said, not bothering to keep the frustration out of his voice. “I didn’t tell them that. I wouldn’t. Not without checking with you first. We are in this together, after all.” 

“What did you tell them, then?” 

“That you are letting me stay in your spare room while I sort things out with the team. So, as I said… the truth.” 

Christian heaved out a deep sigh and collapsed back against the wall. “Ugghhhh, for fanden, Vincent. You can’t just…” 

Another breath. 

“Okay. This is… okay.” 

“Is it?” Vincent asked. “Because it doesn’t look okay.” 

“I’m just… processing. Christ. I thought for some reason you’d entirely lost your mind.” 

“Not quite,” Vincent replied, his words coming out clipped, his tone dry and more biting than he’d intended. “Anyway, if you’d bothered to return any of my messages you might have known I was planning a gathering. But since you didn’t…” He finished off with a vague shrug. 

Christian calmed slightly at this, curling into himself a bit and staring down at the floor in front of his feet. 

“I…” he started, then stopped. 

Seconds stretched into long moments as the two stood in silence, Christian biting so hard at his lip that Vincent half expected it to come away bleeding. Vincent stared over at him, waiting for him to say anything at all—to offer some explanation for why he’d seemingly had no trouble texting Jan or Ben or any number of other people back, but when it came to Vincent he still couldn’t be bothered to respond, even when they stood in the same room. 

“Nevermind,” Vincent said at last, breaking the crushing stillness that had fallen between them. “You said you were tired. I’ll let you get your sleep.” 

He moved slowly, giving Christian time to step forward, to stop him, to apologize, to say something, but it wasn’t until Vincent had lifted one foot onto the bottom step that Christian finally spoke. 

“You’re right.” 

“I know,” Vincent said, the words coming out acerbic and cutting, but he didn’t care. “Did you give any consideration at all to updating me on your plans? Or was I just supposed to sit around here wondering if you would return home sometime before I had to leave again?” 

“Vincent. I don’t… This isn’t…” Christian’s voice had gone impossibly soft, the words muffled and strained. 

“I meant to, I really did, but…” 

He blew out a long, slow sigh, tipping his head up to stare at the ceiling before dropping it back down, eyes meeting Vincent’s at last. 

“Okay. The truth is that I didn’t know what to say.” 

“You didn’t…” Vincent started, then shook his head. “How hard was it, Chris? ‘Hello Vincent, here are my travel plans, thank you for asking.’” 

“Right. I…that’s on me. It’s just… well… at first…” 

“What, Christian?” 

Christian let out another long sigh, then shook his head and straightened up. “I mean… I didn’t know what to say at first. Not about travel or my plans or any of that, but about everything else… the World Cup and the match and just… I don’t know. All of it. I didn’t know what to say.” 

Vincent crinkled up his face as he stared over at Christian. “What was there to say? You lost a match. It happens. What is it you say to me all the time? 'There are ten other people on that pitch equally as responsible for what happens as you are.' This is football.” 

“I know,” Christian said, his voice still quiet. “And I know all that, but…” 

“But, what? You lost on penalty kicks in the knock-out stages of a World Cup. The only way I can even go to a World Cup is if you buy me a ticket to watch it.” 

At this, Christian flinched backward, curling up even tighter into himself, his eyes going wide. “That’s… Vincent I didn’t mean… or, well, I did, but…” 

“Oh,” Vincent said. “Well that’s lovely, Christian, thank you. ‘Vincent, I lost one incredibly close match at the highest level of competition imaginable and I have no idea how to handle it. How do you manage to do this over and over and over again and not feel like a complete and utter failure at all times?’ Here’s a secret, Christian. I don’t. Not very well.” 

He lifted his foot to resume his trek up the stairs once more, but Christian was faster, hand darting out to capture Vincent’s in his own. 

“No.” 

Christian’s voice was firm and strong, his fingertips crushing against the bones of Vincent’s hand. 

“No, what? You missed one penalty kick and you’re acting like your life is over. Do you expect me to have sympathy for you? All I do is fail and drag my teammates and everyone else down with me. Forgive me if I can’t really care.” 

Silence again. Vincent unable to hear anything beyond the rhythmic throb of blood in his ears, his whole body shaking with it. Everything around him too hot, too tight, too close. 

Christian’s words came out strangled and small when he finally spoke. “Vincent. Look at me. Please?” 

Vincent didn’t move at first, taking a few beats to steady himself before he slid his foot off the bottom step and slowly turned around to face Christian. 

Blue eyes flicked open to meet his own, pupils wide even in the bright overhead light filling the room. 

“I’m sorry.” 

It was a start; enough to keep Vincent from spinning around and marching right back up the stairs where he could shut himself into his room and sulk into a temper tantrum like some sort of child. 

“I didn’t…” Christian blew out another long, slow breath. “You’re right. I should be grateful. I’ve been able to play in two World Cups. We made it out of the group stage even though most of the world didn’t expect that we would. It’s just…” 

He worried at his lower lip again, eyes closed, although he didn’t relax his firm grip on Vincent’s wrist. Vincent stayed still, giving Christian the space he knew he needed to work out his feelings and find the right words. 

Eventually, he gave a sharp nod and then his eyes snapped open. 

“I didn’t want it to end that way.” 

“Of course you didn’t,” Vincent said, his words once again harsh and biting. “Who would?” 

Christian let out a frustrated groan, then reached up with his free hand and ran it through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead and letting it fall back down into an unruly tousle. 

“What I mean is… you were there. Because I asked you to be there—practically forced you to be there—and I thought I would be glad, but really I just… I don’t know, it was hard. I wanted to play the best I could, of course, but there was the Danish media and everyone looking to me and then you were there and… it was all so much all the time. It’s all just a distraction, I know, and usually I can look past it, but this time…” 

“Right,” Vincent said, the word clipped and his tone cutting. He yanked the arm Christian was holding, shaking and pulling until he eventually ripped it from Christian’s grasp. “Sorry for being just another distraction. Something else you had to deal with.” 

He gave a shake of his head then spun around and stomped up the stairs toward the spare room. 

“Vincent wait,” Christian shouted after him, but Vincent didn’t stop. He’d had enough of Christian’s explanations for one evening. 

When he reached the top, he headed straight for the spare room, slammed the door shut behind him, and flung himself down on the sofa, his entire body hot and tight and quivering with anger and frustration and sweeping pangs of something that might have been guilt or might have been sadness or might have been something else entirely. His head was pounding and his stomach felt strangely empty and hollow. 

He pressed his face down hard into the small pillow he’d retrieved from Christian’s bedroom a few days earlier, but threw it away almost instantly. He’d chosen that particular pillow because it had smelled the strongest of Christian—the scent always a source of grounding comfort to Vincent wherever he found himself now making his stomach flip and roll and the corners of his eyes prickle with the threat of hot tears. 

A distraction. Unneeded pressure. Unwanted noise in Christian’s ear. 

Vincent lifted his head, bent his elbows in front of him, buried his face in his arms, and willed himself to fall asleep so this miserable day could just be over. 


	10. Chapter 10

Vincent had no idea how long he’d been lying there.

All he knew was that his mind was racing and his stomach felt sick and he somehow felt on edge and wrung out all at the same time.

At some point, he had heard Christian’s soft footsteps on the stairs and then the sound of a door easing shut, but now it was just him, the intermittent hum of his laptop fan on the desk, the occasional whir of a passing car on the street outside, and all the thoughts in his head screaming out at full volume all at the same time.

Distraction. Too much. Not good enough. Not what Christian had wanted or needed.

He flipped over, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. His eyes burned and his body ached, and all he wanted was to crash back into sleep, wake up, and find out this whole day had been one strange, horrible dream. He’d do things differently next time—better—tell Ben and Coco that he was terribly sorry, but he’d changed his mind or Christian’s plans had changed and instead of a party and friends and all of it, he’d greet Christian at the door, alone, with a simple “welcome home, I’ve missed you.”

From there, he assumed, things would proceed in their usual fashion—slow, heady kisses turning into something more frenzied and wild. Hunger and desire, each with a desperate need to sink into the other.

Later, they would lay together in bed until Christian drifted off to sleep beside him.

Instead, Vincent now lay on his sofa alone, staring up at a ceiling that was somehow both wholly foreign and comfortingly familiar.

Christian in the next room, the two of them now living together for however long it lasted. Separated by nothing more than a handful of metres, a wall, and a canyon of thoughts, words, and feelings both said and unsaid.

Somehow, they would figure it all out again—find a way to build their routines around one another, both of them standing side-by-side at the basin, stealing lazy kisses as they readied themselves for the day or leaning together against the counter in the kitchen, steam rising off their mugs of coffee while they laughed over something trivial. They’d done it all before, back when Vincent had still lived in London, and then again in that perfect week between Christmas and the New Year when Christian had given the best gift possible—a physical, tangible space in his life.

For now, though, Vincent felt just as far away from Christian as he had when they’d been on separate continents.

He ground the heels of his hands against his eyes, then rolled over and dropped his feet to the floor. Clearly he wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon. No sense lying here with his brain spinning and his head aching. Probably, Christian would have some aspirin in his medicine cupboard. Maybe that, and a few hours of whatever horrid programming was on British television at whatever time of the night it was, would help distract him from things long enough that he could actually get some sleep.

Whatever tomorrow brought, Vincent had a feeling it would be a rather eventful day, and there was no way he would get through it if he was sleep-deprived, tetchy, and out-of-sorts.

Moving as slowly and quietly as he was able, he eased open the door to the spare room. He flashed a glance to his right, towards Christian’s room, and found the door shut tight, Christian presumably sleeping soundly tucked up in his own bed at last.

Vincent blew out a soft breath, then shook his head and turned the opposite way down the corridor, heading towards the bathroom at the far end. When he reached it, he slipped inside and guided the door closed, turning the handle all the way down until he felt things slide into place, then gradually turning it back upward until the latch engaged.

He turned on the tap, then cupped his hands and splashed the blissfully cool water on his face once, and then again, and then a third time, until it was dripping off his nose and chin and streaming into his eyes off his forehead. His eyes still burned and his eyelids hung heavy with the sleep he so desperately wanted to crash into, but the water had snapped him out of things long enough that he felt like he might at least be able to function well enough to navigate retrieving some aspirin and making his way downstairs without tripping over his own feet.

The aspirin, he assumed, would be tucked away inside the medicine cabinet hidden behind the bathroom mirror. He hadn’t recalled seeing any on the few occasions that he’d had cause to actually open that cabinet over the years, but he also hadn’t been looking for it.

And wasn’t that an interesting thing?

Before Vincent had left for Fenerbahçe, they had both been careful to maintain their own separate spaces. Christian had never stored so much as his own toothbrush at Vincent’s flat, and Vincent had known without even asking that he should keep the same distance here. Christian’s life was his own, and Vincent had always been happy enough just to fit himself into whatever territory Christian was willing to cede.

Now, the two of them were living together, but Vincent’s things still remained carefully separate from Christian’s. Vincent had his own room where all his belongings had been shoved in around the margins and shut away from sight. His whole life, crammed into one room. Everything had a place, juxtaposed amidst the forgotten remnants of Christian’s life, but it still didn’t quite fit in with the rest.

Vincent himself still living out of a suitcase as though this were just some sort of room he’d rented from one of those internet vacation home rental sites—all the comforts of home, but the space still just a little bit strange, the feeling just a little bit foreign and uncomfortable.

He flipped open the cabinet and took stock of things: toothbrush and face soap and shaving foam and beard trimmer—all the things would expect to see in any medicine cabinet in this part of the world. Stuffed in around that were assorted bottles and jars, mostly colognes and after-shave lotions. One of which, he noted, was the brand he tended towards and not Christian’s signature Tom Ford, which was…interesting, to say the least.

The bottle of aspirin had been shoved towards the back, half hidden behind a box of plastic bandages. He fished it out, holding his right hand in front of the shelf, holding everything back from sliding around and potentially crashing down to the small counter or the sink basin. At best, the noise would wake Christian and Vincent would have to explain what he was doing rummaging around his medicine cabinet in the middle of the night. At worst, he’d manage to break something and he’d have to clean up the mess _while_ he explained to Christian what he was doing rummaging around in his medicine cabinet in the middle of the night.

Bottle liberated, he flipped open the top and carefully shook out two of the oblong white pills. He replaced the cover and was about to toss the pills into his mouth when he realised he didn’t have anything to wash them down. Probably, he could have managed to swallow them on his own, but he had planned to make his way downstairs anyway, so he closed the pills in his fist and slid the door open once more.

Christian’s door, at the opposite end of the hall, was still closed tight as Vincent passed by it on his way to the stairs. Vincent thought about opening it; drifting inside and slipping into bed beside Christian. _Resuming normality_ , he thought. Whatever that meant.

At the very least, if he was destined to spend his night lying awake with his thoughts, he might as well do it while listening to the comforting sounds of Christian’s soft breathing beside him.

But he had made his choice, and Christian needed his sleep.

He turned left to head down the stairs, absentmindedly trailing a hand along the bannister, fingers skimming over the bare, smooth wood. He thought nothing of it until he turned the corner onto the landing, where he stopped short.

The long wooden table still lay along the wall opposite the door, piled high with catalogues and advertisements and a month’s worth of post. Above it, the banner had been removed, revealing the framed photo of Christian’s hometown, the blanket of snow covering the landscape looking far too refreshing after so many days of relentless heat.

A square of dim light from the porchlight outside spilled through the high window cut into the front door and out onto the bare floorboards, but brought with it no glint of silver or red off foil scraps or the balloons floating in front of the table. Every single trace had been swept up and put away; not a single speck of confetti or stray streamer to be seen. In fact, there was no sign whatsoever that the evening’s gathering had ever occurred.

If Vincent hadn’t spent hours of his life pinning and hooking and taping everything into place, he might be convinced he’d dreamed the whole thing.

Had Christian really taken the time to clear away any and all reminders of the gathering before heading up to bed? Had he hated the reminders it brought with it this much?

All Vincent had wanted was to do something nice for Christian, to give him the hero’s welcome he more than deserved, but, as usual, Vincent had managed to make a complete hash of things. He should have known better, really. He knew the way of things. You returned from weeks—or in Christian’s case over a month—on the road, where your whole life was social events and media appearances crammed in around training sessions and matches. It was exhausting. Doubly so when you had the pressure of an entire country riding on your performance.

The last thing Christian would want after a loss that would sting for as long as this one, is to be welcomed home and wrapped up in the regalia of the country he’d let down.

He headed through the room, which now looked strangely empty and vacant, despite having been returned to its usual state of order, and into the kitchen for something to drink. He thought about setting the aspirin down on the counter and fishing one of the leftover bottles of beer out of the refrigerator, but opted out. He probably didn’t need yet another beer that day, and definitely not at—he squinted over at the clock on the opposite side of the room—half one in the morning, even if there was an outside chance it might help relax him enough to let him actually get some sleep.

Instead, he snagged a glass out of the cupboard, turned on the tap, filled it full, then tossed the aspirin in his mouth and drank half the water down in one go.

He finished the rest, then refilled the glass and was about to go into the living room and see if he could bore himself into sleep, when Christian stepped around the corner and into the kitchen in front of him, clad in a pair of lightweight shorts and a thin T-shirt, his hair sleep-tousled and sticking up at odd angles.

“Hi.”

Vincent must have looked startled, because Christian held a hand up in front of him in apology. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you. I just…”

“No,” Vincent replied. “You didn’t. Or, well, you did, but… I’m sorry. You were tired and I was trying not to wake you.”

Christian gave a vague shrug, then slipped into the room and leaned against the kitchen counter. “I wasn’t sleeping.”

“I wasn’t either,” Vincent replied. “Clearly.” He held up his glass of water and gestured around himself.

“Right,” Christian said, then, “Vincent… I didn’t…”

He ran a hand through his already unkempt hair then chewed at his bottom lip.

“Sorry,” he said at last, his eyes flicking up to meet Vincent’s. “For earlier. I didn’t… honestly I still don’t know what I was trying to say. I’m absolutely fucking exhausted and I’m not even sure what language I’m speaking right now.”

Vincent liberated another glass from the cupboard. He filled it up and handed it to Christian who took it with a wordless nod of thanks.

“I think what I mean is…” he started after he’d taken a few sips of the water.

“It’s like this. I wanted to do better. To be better. Not because I couldn’t handle it or because I thought I had failed or anything, although I admit that I took on a lot of the burden for the loss after missing my penalty kick. But…You were there. Watching me. Because I insisted on it. I forced you to give up your whole summer and follow me around Russia even though I knew we wouldn’t even see one another and it would just be a reminder that you hadn’t qualified for the World Cup. And then it ended like…that, and I just… I don’t know.”

He blew out a long breath “I don’t mean to say I didn’t want you there or I wasn’t glad you were around, I just… I didn’t want you to see me like that. I didn’t want that to be how things ended. It’s stupid, I know, but after the match when I got your messages all I could think was that I’d dragged you away from doing whatever you wanted to be doing that summer and then I’d given you nothing but a huge disappointment. I made you do all of that for nothing.”

Vincent let out a low, breathy laugh as he took a few steps towards Christian, then leaned beside him against the counter—a position they’d assumed together more times than Vincent could count over the years of their friendship-turned-relationship.

“That’s really stupid, Chris.”

Christian returned Vincent’s laugh and shook his head. “I said it was.”

“I know, but… it’s… I thought I was the one who was supposed to be absolutely foolish and you were the one that had your life together?”

“Who said that?” Christian asked, giving Vincent a skeptical look.

“Who do you think?” Vincent said by way of an answer, causing Christian to purse his lips and nod.

“Toby,” they both said at the same time.

Silence fell between them again; this one more companionable and without the weighty tension Vincent that had covered everything a few hours before. Beside him, Christian sipped at his water, his body close enough to Vincent that he could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

They stood that way for long minutes, their arms and hips bumping together, surrounded in one another’s presence.

Vincent finished his water and set the glass down on the counter behind him with a soft clink. Beside him, Christian stared contemplatively ahead of him, his own empty glass clenched tightly in his hand.

“ _Christiaan_?” he said, the word soft and questioning.

“Hm?” Christian said absently, still not rousing from wherever his thoughts had taken him.

“Are you done?”

“Hm?” Christian said again, and then, “oh. Yes.”

He straightened up at this, setting his own glass down on the counter, then reaching both arms over his head and bending backward into a stretch. The hem of his T-shirt lifted up with the movement, exposing a strip of bare flesh, that Vincent ached to skim his fingertips along, skin brushing skin until he gripped Christian’s hips and dragged him in closer, their bodies pressed tight against one another.

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t hesitate, not here in the safety of Christian’s house, but with the way things had gone between them today, he had no idea whether Christian would welcome the contact or jump back and push him away as though Vincent’s touch had burned him.

Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut tight, then bent forward slightly and shoved off the counter, sending a silent assurance to his dick that, yes, he knew all too well what he had put it through today and that he’d deal with it as soon as he got back upstairs.

“Well…” he said, intending to excuse himself away and give Christian an excuse to get back to his bed.

Christian never let him finish his sentence.

“I’m...really glad you’re here, Vincent.”

He blurted the words out in a rush of breath.

An instant later, a crush of lips against his and Vincent didn’t know whether he’d kissed Christian or Christian had kissed him, but it didn’t matter. They were here, together, at last. Christian’s lean, hard body slammed against his own, both of them gasping and panting and licking into one another’s mouths. Hands running up the back of Vincent’s shirt, Vincent’s own hands digging grooves into Christian’s spine then tugging at the thin fabric until Christian shifted back long enough to let Vincent tug his shirt up over his head.

Vincent’s shirt followed soon after, Vincent groaning into Christian’s mouth at the drag of hot skin against his own. He pressed harder against Christian, wishing he could push and push and push until their bodies joined as one.

Christian stumbled backwards, nearly tumbling to the floor, but keeping his feet and dragging Vincent along with him until he felt the sharp bite of a doorframe against his back. Vincent wasn’t sure which one. He didn’t care.

Their kisses hot and wet and frantic. Hands raking through Vincent’s hair. Christian’s ragged gasps of breath warm and humid against Vincent’s neck, making Vincent’s whole body thrum with the need for more.

He slid a hand down to slip beneath the waistband of Christian’s shorts, working it in deeper until he hooked a finger into Christian’s boxers as well. He shifted, breaking their kisses to nip and lick and suck at Christian’s neck, letting himself get lost in Christian’s soft moans of pleasure.

Hot press of fingers at his wrists, holding him steady, his hands resting against Christian’s hip bones as Christian pulled away.

Vincent let out a little whine of protest, and was rewarded by another press of Christian’s lips against his own before Christian shifted again.

“Waa…?” Vincent managed to gasp out, less a word than a vague hiss of a sound.

Christian let go of one wrist to rub slow circles against the sweat slicked skin of Vincent’s back.

“Can we…” Christian said, not sounding much more coherent than Vincent.

Their chests both heaving as one as they struggled to find breath. Christian’s dick digging into Vincent’s thigh, Vincent’s own pressed painfully against the ball of Christian’s hip.

“…bed,” Christian finally managed. “We should… I can’t…”

He fell silent, and Vincent flicked his eyes open, struggling to find focus as his head spun, all the blood in his body currently pooling in his groin.

Christian sagged against the doorframe, eyes still closed, his face and chest flushed a deep crimson. He looked absolutely spent, despite Vincent not even having managed to rid him of all his clothing yet.

“Is everything okay?”

A beat, Christian’s face flinching slightly before he gave an almost imperceptible nod, eyes still pressed closed.

“Just… God. I’m so tired, _Liefje_. My legs feel like jelly. I think I’m about to just pass out right here in the kitchen.”

“Hmm,” Vincent said. “In that case, maybe I am doing something wrong.”

Christian’s eyes flicked open at this, barest rim of grey-blue around wide pupils. “What?”

Vincent let out a huff of a laugh and shook his head. “Nevermind. Do you want me to stop? Let you go upstairs and get some sleep. I really can sleep on the sofa if you want…to give you the bed to yourself.”

In an instant, the hand on his wrist slid up to wrap around the back of his head as Christian drew him in for another deep, hungry kiss.

“Don’t even think about it.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Saturday, 7 July—London, England**

Vincent woke to the sun streaming in the windows, flooding the room with light and heat. 

He rolled onto his side, ready to bury his face into the cushions of the sofa as an escape from the harsh glare, but instead of the plush fabric he fell into nothing but wide open space. On instinct he flailed his limbs, arms and legs kicking as his body automatically tried to right itself in preparation for its inevitable crash landing onto the floor. 

The crash never came. 

He lay still for a few moments, then flicked his eyes open, trying to get his bearings. 

Shafts of light cast sharp lines on bright white walls and glinted off the glass of a framed photograph. Christian’s bedroom. Vincent now alone in Christian’s bed, crisp white sheets crumpled up around him; evidence of the previous night’s exertions. 

They had tripped and fumbled their way upstairs, hands grasping and groping and clawing at clothing, desperate to sink into one another’s skin. Christian’s body slick and hot beneath his own, both of them coming apart around one another then putting each other back together again. Vincent had drifted off to sleep, warm and content, with Christian’s head against his chest. 

He rolled back over and dropped his feet to the floor, finding the wooden boards cool to the touch. Even in the oppressive heat, Christian’s house had a refreshing crispness about it, everything light and bright and open, making you feel comfortable and welcome. 

The few items of clothing that had actually made it upstairs had been scattered around the room in careless piles, and he stopped to gather it up piece by piece as he made his way down the hallway into the spare room. He tossed everything into the corner, telling himself he’d take some time later to properly sort through it. 

When he’d finished dressing enough to be considered decent—grabbing the first T-shirt, boxers, athletic shorts he could unearth from the laundry heaped atop his suitcase—he ducked into the bathroom and turned on the tap, letting the cool water trickle through his fingers for a few moments before he reached up to smooth his hair into place the best he could. The top still stuck up in short spikes, as it was wont to do without a palmful of product to tame it, but he decided this was good enough. He needed coffee and some breakfast, and Christian had certainly seen him looking worse. 

They might as well both get used to the idea of turning up for breakfast in whatever clothing they’d grabbed off the bedroom floor, disheveled and unwashed, hair a mess and teeth unbrushed. 

“ _Christiaan_ ,” Vincent called out into the quiet of the house. “Where are you?” 

No answer. 

He continued down the stairs, ducking his head around the corner to peer into the living room, half expecting to find Christian sprawled out asleep on his sofa, oblivious to the world. It wasn’t an infrequent occurrence, especially on the days following Christian’s travels. He would often wake early and stumble downstairs, only to crash back into sleep a few moments after he sat down. 

“ _Christiaan_ ,” he called again, but the room was empty. 

Unsurprisingly, the dining room and kitchen stood empty as well. If Christian had been there, he would have responded to Vincent’s call. He passed through both rooms, then turned the corner to the conservatory, hoping to find Christian there dozing in the sun or absorbed in a book or some article on his phone, but once again the room was deserted. 

Just to be sure, he cracked open the door and stuck his head into the back garden. Once again, no sign of Christian; nothing but the sound of birds chattering in the trees overhead and the distant shrieks and shouts of children on the nearby playground. 

He ducked back into the house and grabbed the handle of the door leading out to the garage, wondering if perhaps Christian had slipped out early, planning to be back before Vincent woke. 

Vincent had never been one to turn down the opportunity for a lie-in on a day off, although that mostly only applied to those mornings when he woke to find Christian curled against his chest and they could ease into the day with lazy, gentle kisses and slow strokes of fingertips along skin. Lying in bed alone and staring up at the ceiling just didn’t have quite the same allure. 

Just as he was about to turn the handle, the door swung towards him. Vincent let out a yelp and jumped backwards, flinging both his hands into the air. 

An instant later, Christian’s head appeared around the door, followed quickly by the rest of him. He tipped his head as he looked over at Vincent. “What are you doing?” 

“I…” Vincent started. “Looking for you, actually.” 

“Oh.” 

Christian kicked off the Nike slides he wore whenever he put the trash out or retrieved something from the garage, then shut the door behind him. In one hand, he carried a small, square cardboard box, which he held out towards Vincent. 

“Here.” 

Vincent tipped his head and frowned down at the box. It was ordinary brown cardboard and bore no branding or marking or anything whatsoever to give Vincent a hint about its contents. 

“What is it?” 

“Why does everyone always ask that?” Christian asked. “If you’d open it, you’d find out.” 

“Fair,” Vincent said. He took the box from Christian, but held off on opening it. It wasn’t heavy, but Vincent could feel the contents shifting within it as he moved. 

“Just open it,” Christian said, his voice laced with a hint of impatience. 

Vincent pulled at the lid of the box, which swung open to reveal a half-dozen roundish pastries dripping with confectioners sugar and topped with a handful of sliced up strawberries. He poked at one with his finger to find that they were still warm, the sugar melting into icing which he licked off his fingertip as he looked up at Christian. 

“You got me _poffertjes 1_?” 

Christian nodded. 

“But...” Vincent tried to take a moment to sort through all the questions trying to rush out of his mouth and finally settled on “why?” 

Christian looked a little taken aback. “Because you like them.” 

Vincent couldn’t argue with that, he did enjoy the small Dutch pancakes very much—probably a little bit too much, according to every nutritional counselor he’d ever had. But that didn’t explain why Christian, who had never been one to encourage Vincent’s sweet tooth before, had turned up at home with an entire box full of them. 

“I... Okay,” Vincent said. He set the box down on the kitchen island, then slipped around to the cupboard to retrieve a small plate. 

“Are you having some?” he asked Christian. 

Christian shook his head. “No, thank you. They’re all for you.” 

“You’re trying to make sure I’m too fat for my pre-season medical then?” Vincent said with a wry laugh. 

Christian’s eyes went wide at this and he took an instinctive step backwards. “No! I just… I know you like them and I thought… I can eat some if you’d like.” 

“Christian, it’s fine.” 

Vincent set the plate down on the counter and lifted one of the small pancakes onto it. 

He sliced off a corner and popped a forkful of the pastry into his mouth. 

It was sugar sweet from all the icing, but the dough was just the right level of savory to balance the flavours. The cake itself had gone soft from the butter he knew had been melted over the top and was cut through occasionally with the juice from the strawberries. It wasn’t quite a perfect replica, but close enough to send him back to the memories of special Sunday mornings sitting alongside his family in the café near their house in Oss. 

“Where did you get these?” 

Christian lifted his head to meet Vincent’s eyes. “What? Oh.” He swallowed down the bite he’d been chewing. “Well, I wanted to get them from the place you like in Camden, but they weren’t open yet so I had to go down to Southwark.” 

Vincent almost dropped his fork, at that, managing to grab it just before it clanged off the side of his plate and fell to the floor. 

“You drove all the way south of the river on a Saturday morning just for some pancakes?” 

“Sure,” Christian said, giving Vincent that look of wide-eyed innocence he tended to affect when he didn’t particularly want to speak about something. “I mean, it wasn’t ideal. Camden is closer. Do you like them?” 

“ _Ja_ ,” Vincent said, “but…” 

“Good.” The tone suggested that Christian had no plans to continue the conversation 

Vincent narrowed his eyes at him, then turned his attention back to his plate. 

He supposed that was fine. Christian probably just wanted to thank him for the welcome home or offer something up to Vincent as a bit of a peace offering—as if their activities the previous night hadn’t been sufficient in that department. 

The sex had been absolutely carnal, both of them filled with a deep, aching need to touch and to be touched. All traces of tension between them melted away with the shared heat of their bodies and the swipe of tongue against tongue and slide of skin against skin. Vincent pushing deeper and deeper and deeper, trying to unite their two bodies into one. Christian writhing and rolling beneath him, tugging Vincent closer, the air filled with the sounds of his moans and gasps of breath, words spilling out of him in languages Vincent didn't need to understand. 

They may have spent most of a year apart, but it had been clear from the first brush of skin against skin that their bodies hadn't forgotten a thing. 

Christian turned to the cupboard and retrieved his own plate, along with the requisite cutlery, then took one of the pancakes for himself. 

“I thought they were all for me,” Vincent teased. “And now here you are… bringing gifts and then taking them for yourself.” 

“I’d hate to think I was the reason you failed a medical,” Christian replied. 

“Ha. Probably, I can manage that on my own. Then you’ll be stuck with me forever. We both know I have no qualifications that would help me get an actual job.” 

Christian let out a small, low noise, but said nothing, instead focusing in on slicing off a small piece of his pastry like he was performing a delicate surgery that required the whole of his attention. 

“Should I make coffee?” Vincent asked. He’d just finished his final bite and was wishing he had something to wash the pancake down. He didn’t particularly relish the warmth of a steaming hot mug on a day like today, but he’d always been a fan of the way the bitter flavour of the coffee helped balance out some of the sweetness of his dessert. 

“Hm?” 

“Do you want coffee?” Vincent repeated. 

“Coffee?” Christian asked, then jerked his head up to look at Vincent once more. “Oh. No. Actually, I was planning on having coffee out today.” 

He set his fork down with a clink, pancake only half-finished, then looked down at his watch. “And… I’m running a bit behind. Lots to do today. Best get going.” 

He stood up from where he still leaned against the kitchen island, then gave Vincent a little nod and a sort of half smile and disappeared around the corner into the living room, presumably heading upstairs. 

Vincent stared after him for a few moments, wondering at the abruptness of Christian’s reaction. 

Sure, Vincent had slept a bit later than he ordinarily would have, but it was still not quite half ten in the morning, and Christian was just beginning the three-week break he was allowed between the World Cup and the start of the season. Certainly he could take one day to slow down and enjoy his breakfast. 

He leaned over and stabbed the remainder of Christian’s pancake with his fork. He shoved the whole thing into his mouth, dumped both sets of dishes into the sink, and headed upstairs after Christian. If they were going out he should probably attempt to look a bit more presentable. At the very least he needed to tame his hair and put on some shorts that hadn’t spent the previous night crumpled up in a ball somewhere. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 — _poffertjes_ are Dutch pancakes that are soft and puffy and usually served with butter and powdered confectioners sugar. They are a big thing at festivals. I guess the best equivalent I have to them are that they are sort of a hybrid of a pancake and a doughnut? Anyway, [ here's a recipe](https://www.thedutchtable.com/2012/10/poffertjes.html)


	12. Chapter 12

He ducked back into the spare room once again and dug through the jumbled mountain of clothing atop his suitcase. Eventually, he managed to unearth a pair of chinos from the very bottom of the stack. They were slightly wrinkled, pressed into creases along the folds from spending too many weeks crushed underneath everything else, but at least they were clean.

He’d just dropped his shorts to the floor and lifted one leg to change into his trousers when he heard a noise behind him and turned around.

Christian stood in the doorway, still clad in the plain black T-shirt and dark trousers he’d been wearing downstairs, black cap now pulled onto his head.

Vincent didn’t bother putting on his trousers before he stepped towards him. Christian immediately took a step backward, deliberately turning his head to avoid looking at Vincent, his cheeks and ears pink.

“What?” Vincent asked, keeping his voice low and teasing. “After everything we’ve done together you’re still embarrassed to see me in my underwear.”

“I…” Christian started, but Vincent cut him off with a kiss, bill of his cap bumping against Vincent’s forehead.

He pulled away, shaking his head and pressing a palm to Vincent’s chest.

“I have things to do,” he said, but the protest came out half-hearted at best.

“Hmm, so do I,” Vincent hummed against his neck, licking at the spot below his jaw that never failed to make Christian writhe and moan around him.

This time was no different, Christian’s words swallowed up into a low groan as he squirmed in Vincent’s arms. His dick was now noticeably hard against Vincent’s leg, and Vincent ground against it, relishing the low, needy whines Christian let out at the contact.

He reached up to slip the cap from Christian’s head, then swept him in closer. This time, Christian relaxed into the kiss, opening his mouth wider to let Vincent slide his tongue inside.

Vincent shifted backward, guiding them both towards the sofa with hesitant, stumbling steps. As they moved, he slipped a hand beneath the soft fabric of Christian’s T-shirt to drag against skin that was sticky with sweat. He tugged at the hem, lifting the fabric upward and breaking the kiss just long enough to slide the shirt up and over Christian’s head.

He crushed their mouths together once more, dropping his hands between them to fumble with the button on Christian’s trousers as he continued his slow shuffle towards the sofa. When he felt the soft fabric hit the back of his knee, Vincent let his body drop down, dragging Christian along with him.

Christian’s body landed atop his, half-straddling Vincent’s legs, half-kneeling on the sofa. He wriggled around, standing up a bit and shoving at his trousers until they fell to the floor. He kicked his legs free, then collapsed back down to the sofa beside Vincent.

Vincent flicked his eyes open to see Christian staring back at him, his blue eyes wide, his pupils dark. His cheeks were flushed a deep pink, his lips swollen and shining with saliva.

“God I’ve missed this,” Vincent whispered, leaning over to grab at Christian, wrapping a hand around the back of his head to draw him back in for another kiss.

Before he’d gotten halfway there, however, Christian let out a yelp and jolted upward.

Vincent threw himself backwards on instinct, hands in the air. “I’m sorry! I didn’t… did I hurt you?”

Christian waved him off with one hand, while reaching around behind himself with the other. He shifted his hips upward and groped around until finally yanking his hand out, Vincent’s phone clutched tight in his fist.

He held it out towards Vincent, mouth open to say something when a muffled “Hello?” sounded out into the space between them.

Christian gave another jolt, this time flinging his hand into the air and releasing his grip on the phone, which bounced off the back of the sofa and flipped down land in the few centimetres of space between them.

“What the hell?” the voice, which Vincent now recognised as belonging to Roman, yelled out over the speaker.

Vincent and Christian both grabbed for the phone, their hands landing atop the slick plastic simultaneously before Christian yanked his away.

“Sorry,” he yelled. “I didn’t mean to…”

Laughter from the phone speaker, Roman’s voice joined by Martin’s slightly deeper one.

“What is going on over there, _Vincenzo_?”

Umm,” Vincent said at the same time that Christian yelled out a hasty, “Nothing.”

Vincent raised his eyebrows at him questioningly, but didn’t say anything.

The laughter continued, his friends’ voices tinny and distorted over the small speaker. Vincent reached down to lift the phone up from where it had fallen and peered down at the image staring back at him—Roman’s amused face dominating the space with Martin’s occasionally drifting in at the edge.

As he turned the phone sideways, allowing the picture to shift and fill the display, a low-battery alert flashed across the screen He shouldn’t be surprised, really. That’s what happened when you got too caught up in your own sulking to remember to plug your phone into the charger.

He tapped at the screen to dismiss the warning. “My battery is low, hold on.”

Phone in his left hand, Vincent leaned over rooted around beside the sofa with the right until he managed to grab hold of the thin plastic wire of his charger. He gave it a tug, then another, but it seemed to be caught on something. He leaned over farther, yanking at it in some kind of vain attempt to loosen up enough slack that he could plug the phone in.

Roman’s voice yelled out its protests over the speaker. “Ach. _Vincenzo_. You’re going to make me motion sick.”

Vincent stopped what he was doing, still half-bent over the arm of the sofa, phone cord clutched tight in his hand.

“You don’t get motion sick,” he said in the direction of the phone.

“I will if you don’t stop waving the phone around like that.”

“Close your eyes then,” he yelled out, giving the cord another firm yank that pulled it free of whatever it had been hung up on. “I’m almost done.”

Christian took pity on everyone and lifted the phone out of Vincent’s grasp, tipping it towards himself and staring down at the screen.

“Christian, you are a saint. Bless you,” Roman called out. “ _Vincenzo_ has no regard for anyone’s well-being but his own.”

Vincent paused in his attempts to jam the charger prongs into the outlet he knew was a few centimetres behind the edge of the sofa to lean over and flash Roman a rude gesture.

“Polite as always,” Martin retorted, his voice full of teasing laughter at the antics of his friends.

“Roman, Martin. Hello again,” Christian cut in, lifting the hand not holding the phone and giving a little wave at the screen. “It is good to see you. I hope you are both well.”

“Quite, thank you. Same to you,” Martin responded.

“Well enough,” Christian said. “I have only just gotten back, so I am not yet settled in, but it will be good to have a short break.”

“Yes,” Roman replied. “For us, our break is over, sadly. Training begins on Monday. That’s why we are calling, actually.”

Vincent finally managed to wiggle the plug into the outlet—thankfully not electro-shocking himself in the process—then leaned over and took the phone back from Christian so he could jab the cord into the end.

“Why are you calling?”

“Hello, _Vincenzo_ ,” Roman said, his voice dripping with polite sarcasm. “It is good to see you again. We’ve missed you too.”

“I just saw you two weeks ago,” Vincent said.

“Maybe while you are in London you can learn some manners from Christian,” Martin cut in. His tone was so overly sombre that Vincent thought he was actually serious for half a second until he cracked a smile.

Vincent returned the look with a shake of his head and a wide grin of his own. He shifted on the sofa to lean in closer to Christian, angling the phone around until both of their faces were partially visible in the tiny box at the corner of the screen.

“What the hell is going on there anyway?” Roman asked. “You two both look like you just…”

His eyes flew open wide as realisation kicked in, and he actually attempted to recoil, leaning comically back from the screen, the look on his face somewhere between confusion and mild horror.

“OH. Oh God, _Vincenzo_. Why would you answer a phone call right now?”

Martin and Vincent both burst out laughing, for the face Roman was making more than anything else. Christian let out a small whimper and plastered a hand over his face.

“I didn’t,” Vincent said between gulps of laughter. “I mean… Well, Christian did, but…”

“Because your phone surprised me,” Christian yelled out in hasty protest. “And anyway, we weren’t doing anything. I just came in to tell Vincent I was leaving.”

He leapt off the sofa, scrambling to his feet and grabbing his trousers from where he’d dropped them on the floor. He gave them a shake then began shoving them on, hopping on one foot, then the other as he tugged at the fabric.

Once again, Vincent raised his eyebrows at him, and he flushed an even deeper shade of red, the colour creeping all the way down from his ears into his chest.

“We will call you back,” Roman said “Or you can… You know. Just give us a call when you are finished.”

“No!” Christian yelled, his eyes now wide and somewhat frantic. “It… it is fine… I was just…”

“Nevermind,” Vincent said with a laugh. “We are already on the phone and I am living here now, so Christian and I can start over again later.”

“Oh, well. Since you live there now, then we called for no reason,” Roman said.

“What?” Vincent asked.

“We’ve finished moving into the flat,” Roman said, as though that explained everything.

Martin leaned across Roman, his face popping into full view on the screen. “We thought you might want to see it. We have your room put together, but you can change it when you get here if you want.”

“Yes!” Roman said, ducking back in front of Martin. “Video tour!”

At this, Christian let out a strangled squeak of a noise and darted away towards the middle of the room.

Vincent tried to grab hold of his arm, but Christian was faster, practically sprinting the few steps to where his T-shirt and cap had fallen then bending down to scoop them up.

“Christian, where are you going? Come sit back down, and see where I will be living this year.”

He let out another odd noise, then tugged his shirt over his head and flicked a glance down at his wristwatch.

“No. That’s… I really must go now. I don’t know when I will return, but I’m sure I will see you when I get home.”

“Christian!” Vincent called out, getting to his feet himself now. “Wait a minute. Let me finish getting dressed and I’ll come with you.”

He turned his attention back to the phone screen. “Can I call you later for that video tour? You’re not going to give my room away this afternoon if I don’t come to claim it, are you?”

Roman let out a laugh. “I hadn’t thought about this, but now that you bring it up…”

“Ha,” Vincent said. “Fine. I suppose I will have to make my own accommodations whenever I finally turn up.”

He looked back up at Christian, who now hovered in the doorway, his cap pulled back down onto his head.

“Two minutes,” Vincent said, crouching down to retrieve the trousers he’d begun to put on earlier.

Christian shook his head. “No… I… you should stay. Speak with your friends… I’m in a bit of a rush. I was already running late, so…”

“Where are you going?” Vincent asked.

Another glance at his wristwatch. “Coffee. As I said. And then… just… a lot to do after you return from being away. You know how it is.”

He took a halting step back into the room, and for a second Vincent thought he might come over to give him a proper goodbye, but all he did was lean in far enough to call out his goodbyes to Roman and Martin before shifting back into the hallway, then disappearing down the stairs.

“I…” Vincent started, ready to make his own apologies to his friends and dash off after Christian. Instead, he blew out a deep breath and settled further into the sofa.

“Everything alright?” Roman asked, voice light, but the look on his face betraying his concern.

“Everything is…good,” Vincent said, forcing a smile as he held the phone up and looked at his friends. “Now show me this flat. I hope you saved the best room for me.”


	13. Chapter 13

Vincent dropped his phone, still attached to the charger, to the arm of the sofa. The battery had edged just over fifty percent full and he had no plans for the day that would cause him to be more than a few rooms away from a charging station, but he thought he might as well let it fill up entirely. He’d head down for the rest of his breakfast and some coffee and check on it afterward.

He had spent the better part of an hour talking with Roman and Martin, neither of them coming out and directly asking if Vincent was doing okay, but both letting him know in their own way that they were there to listen if he needed it. They had given him a place in their lives, and that alone was enough to make whatever was going on with Christian and Spurs and life in general a bit more bearable. He still wasn’t sure where he’d land when the world tossed him in the air again, but whatever came of things, he had someplace to belong.

His truest wish, of course, was that his home could be here with Christian, but he knew the realities of things. If he couldn’t stay in London, then he’d happily head back to Istanbul and try to find a bit of permanence in his life for once.

When he'd agreed to a loan to Fenerbahce nearly a year ago, he’d done it because he'd run out of options. He'd done everything he could to show how much he wanted to stay with Tottenham—how devoted he was to the club and how much the opportunity meant to him—but all he'd managed to do was fall even further out of favour.

He'd never expected to make such lasting friendships when he'd moved to Istanbul. He'd certainly never thought that nearly a year later he'd be sitting in Christian's house in London on the weekend before training resumed hoping Spurs would work out terms quickly so he could get back to his club and his friends.

Soon enough, he told himself. If things went according to plan he'd be back in Istanbul in a few weeks, reunited with his friends and missing Christian fiercely.

Speaking of Christian, where had he gone in such a hurry? One minute they’d been back to what passed for normal life—gathered together over breakfast, albeit an odd one—and the next Christian was running out the door without even a mention of where he was going or when he would return.

And Vincent was back to sitting around this too big house that still didn’t feel like his home, waiting for Christian to return.

Whatever was going on with Christian, he had made a space for Vincent in his life, and although Vincent was eager to get back to his friends, he owed it to himself, to Christian, and to everything they'd been through in the past few years, to do his part to make things work.

Probably, Christian was still exhausted from his summer and Vincent’s presence in his house had caught him by surprise. Neither of them were used to sharing space with anyone, let alone trying to work their lives in around one another after spending a year only speaking across a telephone line or a computer screen. In a way, although their relationship was far from new, it still had some of that awkwardness that came with getting to know one another on a deeper level. Toss in the massive step of committing to live together and it was no wonder Christian seemed a bit unbalanced.

He knew Christian taking the step to ask him to move in had been monumental. To Vincent, it just seemed like the next logical thing—they’d been together in one way or another for nearly a year by the time Christian had asked and before Vincent had moved away they’d spent every night together at either Vincent’s flat or Christian’s house anyway. But for Christian it meant more.

It wasn’t just that Christian valued his space, although that was part of it. Mostly, it was that maintaining distinctly separate spaces had meant there was still some structure to things; some boundaries that hadn’t been crossed. It meant that Christian still had control.

At first, Vincent had taken it personally, thinking it meant that Christian was somehow ashamed of him or embarrassed or that this thing they were doing was fun, but he didn’t see Vincent as someone he could commit to. It was only later, once he’d learned of Christian’s past—his hesitance to get involved with a teammate and how, despite all his reservations and hyper-rationality, he’d still managed to trip and fall headfirst into the cyclone that had been his relationship with Daley Blind.

He and Daley had been young, and for both of them it was not just their first serious relationship, but the first time they’d allowed themselves to act on their feelings towards another man. But Christian had let Daley sweep him away, and although Christian was still pointedly silent about the particulars of their breakup, Vincent knew enough to know that things between them hadn’t ended well.

After that, Christian had vowed never to let himself get that tripped up in someone again, and especially not in a relationship as potentially career damaging as the one he’d had with Daley.

Then, Vincent had come along and tumbled them both right back into it, despite his best efforts to always give Christian the space he needed and to always let him be the one to dictate how far things went.

Right, Vincent told himself, leaning forward and sliding to the edge of the sofa cushions. Christian had been the one to ask Vincent to move in here. It wasn’t as though he were some sort of interloper or that friend who turned up on your doorstep begging for a place to sleep ‘just for tonight’ because he’d had some sort of falling out and been booted out of his lodgings. He’d been invited, and they’d both just have to learn to work through things.

If Christian had a problem with it or wanted to rescind his offer, well, he’d just have to come out and tell Vincent. Until then, Vincent was going to do everything in his power to prevent Christian from regretting the decision.

He liberated his phone from where he’d let it fall, and fired off a quick text message to Christian.

‘ _Do you know when you will come home?_ '’  
‘ _Do I need to order lunch or do you want to eat these sandwiches again?’"  
__'I am not sure we have any other food.’_

The messages were a bit premature, perhaps, considering the hour, but all Vincent had eaten by way of breakfast were the one and a half small pancakes, and that had been nearly an hour and a half ago now. He was hungry.

He stared down at the screen, waiting for the acknowledgement that Christian had received and read his messages, but after turning his screen back on three times, the double check marks were still grey.

Probably, he was driving and would respond to them later. At least, Vincent hoped he would respond to them later.

He scrolled up the list to show a series of messages all sent by Vincent over the past few days, each displaying the blue double check marks to indicate they'd been read.

‘ _I am now back in London. I will see you when you get home._ ’  
‘ _I am proud of you and I love you_ ’

‘ _Do you know when you will arrive home?_ ’  
‘ _Shall I meet you at the airport?_ ’

‘ _Let me know when you will return_ ’  
‘ _I miss you and I cannot wait to see you again_ ’

Christian hadn’t responded to any of them.

But things were different now. Their talk the previous evening seemed to have broken some of the lingering tension between them—Christian taking an opportunity to be open and raw and vulnerable in a way he so rarely was. Vincent couldn’t blame him, really. He knew the sting of that loss and the hurt and shame and guilt that so often went with it.

Still, Christian had talked him through it so many times. Why would he think Vincent, of all people wouldn’t understand?

Vincent dropped his phone to the sofa beside him then climbed to his feet and made his way downstairs. Christian would answer or he wouldn’t. For now, Vincent needed some coffee. Everything always seemed better after coffee anyway.

* * *

Post-whatever passed for the rest of his breakfast, Vincent took his time cleaning up. In his quest for coffee he’d unpacked what felt like half of Christian’s kitchen cabinets, and he figured his first act as housemate probably shouldn’t be to rummage through the cupboards and leave the mess for later. Besides, he didn't exactly have anything better to do after Christian had dashed out the door and left him on his own for who knows how long. 

He saved out a set of glass storage containers with interlocking lids he’d found hiding in the back reaches of the cupboards and loaded them up with the leftovers from last night’s party—meats in one, cheeses in another, vegetables and garnishes in a third, not bothering to separate roast beef from turkey or asparagus from radishes. It could all get sorted out later. His plan was to fill the containers up with whatever fit and bin the rest. 

Christian clearly had no interest in the food, or even leaving any evidence that a party in his honour had occurred, but hopefully he wouldn’t begrudge Vincent three containers stacked in the corner of the refrigerator. 

Job done—he'd actually managed to fit the better part of the food into the container set—Vincent piled the remainder onto one of the platters and slipped it back into the refrigerator. He'd grab it and toss it in the bin whenever he went out next. The other platters he gave a quick rinse and set in a stack on the kitchen island, also for disposal the next time he was headed that way. He slid the containers into the fridge and gave a self-satisfied nod. 

Vincent shut the refrigerator door and headed into the front entryway, which still looked oddly bare without the decorations, despite this being it's normal working state, then up the stairs back into the spare room. 

He lifted his phone from where it rested and checked the time. Nearing half one in the afternoon. 

No new messages displayed on screen. He flicked open his WhatsApp to find that Christian still hadn’t even read any of his messages, check marks still showing grey. What was he doing? How had he ended up so occupied that he hadn’t even had time to look at his phone in the past two and a half hours? 

He flicked a glance around the small room. Like the rest of Christian’s house, the far side of the room was precise and orderly. Smooth blonde wood floors, crisp white walls, glass-topped workspace pressed against the far wall. Everything meticulously organised into drawers and bins. Bits of Christian's life all slotted neatly into place. 

In contrast, this side of the room where all Vincent’s earthly possessions spilled out of the boxes and suitcases piled around his plush sofa—the piece itself an anomaly here in Christian’s space. It was fashionable enough, but the slightly worn grey upholstry had been chosen more for comfort than style and it looked shabby and out of place amidst the rest of Christian’s sleek, elegant furnishings. 

Earlier that year, Christian had taken the time to sort through and re-organise years worth of accumulated junk that had been shoved into boxes and bins or hidden in the little-used room’s postage-stamp sized closet just to give Vincent a space to call his own. 

Vincent had obliged somewhat, laying out his collection of trainers along the closet floor and hanging some of the things he wouldn’t need for the summer season—mostly hoodies and a few heavier long-sleeved shirts, but he hadn’t really bothered to stash anything more in the available space. He had no idea how long he’d be staying and the idea of unpacking only to go through the arduous and depressing task of re-packing everything back into boxes and bins and luggage had hardly seemed worth doing. 

Now, however… he was here with Christian—who had invited him into his home and his life and made a space for him. It had been graciously offered, and Vincent might as well do his best to fill it. 


	14. Chapter 14

Vincent had no idea how much time had passed while he’d bounced around the small room sorting out his belongings.

He’d started by scooping up the days worth of T-shirts, shorts, boxers, and socks that had exploded out of the confines of his luggage and sorting them into whatever was dirty and whatever was clean enough to wear again.

The dirty clothes he shoved into a pile in the centre of the room. Everything else he gathered together into a second, somewhat larger pile in front of the closet and began to sift through it, separating out T-shirts from button downs from jeans from shorts. He’d folded and hung everything as neatly as he could, taking the time to organise things into categories and keep them at least passably tidy. It had taken him ages, but he’d stopped midway through and called up some upbeat music on his phone to help the time pass more quickly.

Now, everything had been sorted out, hung up, and put away, with only the small hill of laundry left to deal with.

He tossed another glance at the pile, then stripped the cover off the pillow he’d tossed away to the far side of the room as well as the second, smaller one propped in the corner of his sofa and grabbed the light blanket draped across its back. Christian always kept the sofa ready and waiting, claiming he wanted Vincent to know he had a place here any time and for any reason. They both knew better than to expect Vincent to turn up any more than the odd few days whenever he managed to find a break in training, but it was a nice gesture.

That done, he thought he might as well gather up everything else in need of a wash. They’d definitely made a mess of the sheets the previous evening, and there would be no harm in cleaning the towels Vincent had used over the past few days. He’d collect everything, pack it up, and drop it by the laundry service he knew was nearby. They’d wash it all and fold it and Vincent could pick it up later. Christian would come home to a crisp, clean, organised space, just the way he was used to.

Like most footballers, especially ones living in a two-storey, three-bedroom house all alone, Christian employed a cleaning service to stop by once a week, but whatever Vincent’s role was here, and for however long it lasted, he wanted Christian to know he respected Christian’s space and boundaries and routines and that although he’d never exactly excelled at keeping an immaculate house, he could at least be trusted to take care of Christian’s belongings and leave the house presentable.

He stripped the linens and lightweight duvet off Christian’s bed and added the whole lot to the stack of dirty clothing, leaving it all in a now mountainous pile in the centre of the floor. He’d work out exactly what he was going to use to transport it all to the laundry later.

He ducked back into the bedroom, ready to make his best attempt at re-making the bed in a fresh sheet and duvet, only to realise he had absolutely no idea where Christian stored said items.

It was possible, he supposed, that Christian only had one set of linens for each of the beds, but he found it unlikely. He’d spent a not insignificant number of nights here back in their blissful first months together, and not one time had he seen either bed stripped down, so Christian must have more stashed somewhere.

Vincent had to rummage through first the hall closet, then the closet in the spare room—although he was tolerably sure he would have noticed a stack of bedlinens at least one of the times he’d ducked into the closet to select his footwear for the day—then the upstairs bathroom cupboard, before he found the stash of spare linens neatly folded and stacked in the closet in the second bedroom.

It took him an even longer time to wrestle the sheets over their mattresses and stuff the covers into duvets. They lumped and sagged, and Vincent had to resort to sort of rolling around across the beds to flatten them into some sort of order.

In the end, he might have been better off just leaving things well enough alone and letting Christian swap out his own bedlinens if he wanted to—especially considering that if things went the way they normally did they’d be changing out the bedclothes again the next day anyway—but he hoped Christian would at least appreciate the sentiment and let Vincent’s poor housekeeping skills go with a bit of harmless teasing. 

Beds finally made, it took him several more minutes to figure out where he was supposed to store the dirty laundry for transport to the cleaners.

Somehow, in all the times he’d woken up in Christian’s bed, he’d never once paid any mind to where Christian actually put all the things he gathered up from where they’d been scattered around the floor the evening before. For his part, Vincent had always stuffed everything he wasn’t planning on wearing again back into his backpack and made a point of trying to remember to stop back by his flat every few days to swap things out.

Eventually, he found a stash of large mesh bags among a stash of long-life shopping bags in the front hall closet near the kitchen and garage. He hauled the whole lot upstairs and began stuffing clothing and bed linens into them, ending up with two bulging bags of linens and towels and one and a half shopping bags filled with his dirty clothing.

These he half kicked, half dragged back down the stairs, through the house, and out the garage door, then lifted them into the back seat of his car, ducked back into the house to retrieve his phone, wallet, and the keys to Christian’s house.

He fired off one last text to Christian, although he didn’t hold out a lot of hope that Christian would answer considering his previous messages still showed as unread.

‘ _Heading out on some errands. Any chance you want to meet for lunch?_ ’

* * *

Predictably, he’d never heard back from Christian. 

He thought they’d dealt with this, and Christian couldn’t exactly use the excuse this time that he ‘didn’t know what to say.’ How hard was it to respond to a lunch invitation with a simple “yes” or “no”? 

The one thing Christian still had in his favour was that he still didn’t seem to have actually _read_ Vincent’s messages. Which meant he was either deliberately ignoring Vincent or somehow his phone had been switched off or he’d been too busy to actually look at it. 

Which was… odd, but not unheard of. What did Vincent know of Christian’s routines these days? It was entirely possible that he regularly spent hours at a time away from home on his days off. Vincent wouldn’t blame him. He’d been sitting around Christian’s house alone for the past few days and he’d turned to cleaning up and doing the laundry to keep himself occupied enough that he didn’t start climbing the furniture. 

Still. He’d thought that even if Christian’s regular routine involved spending as much time as possible out of his house, he’d certainly shift it around in favour of snuggling up on the sofa or in bed with Vincent and enjoying whatever time together they might have before they were worlds apart again. 

Or at the very least that he would have waited long enough for Vincent to come with him on these mysterious errands. 

Instead, Vincent was inventing errands of his own. 

He’d dropped the overstuffed bags of laundry by the nearest cleaners with the promise that it would all be delivered to the house, cleaned, pressed, and folded, in a few hours, then headed out in search of food. 

Really, he should have just headed back to the house and gone in for another round of assorted sandwich components in an effort to rid Christian’s refrigerator of them as quickly as possible, but the thought of sitting around eating yet another meal all alone had put paid to that idea. Instead, he’d driven around the area—realising he knew shockingly little about what was actually in and around Christian’s neighbourhood despite having spent a not insignificant number of hours there—until he finally stumbled upon something that billed itself as Turkish but was, in reality, little more than a glorified kebab stand. 

He returned home a few minutes before the laundry arrived. 

Once he’d gotten it in the house and upstairs—dropping everything into the centre of Christian’s spare room—he thought about leaving it there; letting Christian sort it all out and put it back wherever he wanted it if he ever decided to come back home, but he’d started this little housekeeping project so he may as well finish the job. 

Besides, it wasn’t as though he had anything better to do. 

Sheets and towels now back in neat stacks in the guest bedroom cupboard, Vincent gathered up his own clothing. For a moment, he thought about dropping it all back into his suitcase, zipping it up, and flying back to Istanbul, Tottenham be damned. He’d given up his summer to follow Christian around Russia then jetted straight back to London with the hopes of at least a few weeks of pretending maybe his life hadn’t completely gone to hell, and instead, whenever Christian wasn’t going out of his way to avoid accidentally sitting next to Vincent in case they might accidentally make contact and give someone the wrong idea he was running out the door with no explanation and leaving Vincent to his own entertainment. 

But he couldn’t, he knew. Not if he ever wanted to play football again. He certainly wasn’t a big enough talent that throwing a strop and refusing to show up for training would actually work somehow and get him his way. More likely, it would get him a terminated contract and a guarantee that his career was well and truly over. 

He shoved everything onto one of the free shelves in the wardrobe, shut the door, and headed back downstairs. 

There, he detoured through the kitchen for a glass of water, retrieved his phone that he’d abandoned on the counter on his way in, then dropped down onto the living room sofa and flipped on the television. 

It was still set to Sky from the previous evening, and he was greeted by the studio pundits on their Moscow set in deep discussion about the England team’s chances against a tough Swedish side who had charged through the group stage and taken everyone by surprise. 

Vincent didn’t want to hear it. The last thing he needed today was a reminder of his failures as a footballer. He’d read enough of it in the press to last him several lifetimes. _Oranje_ should have been better. The first team to miss two consecutive international tournaments since well before Vincent had even been born. 

He changed the channel. 

He ended up back on the coverage from Wimbledon—this time a match featuring two more players he’d never heard of. The score box at the bottom of the screen showed E. Gulbis locked in what looked to be a tight battle with A. Zverev, whoever they were. He still had very little idea what was going on, but it would do as something to take his mind off things for the next hour until the England match actually started. 

His own insecurities aside, Vincent couldn’t just ignore his friends playing in an enormous match on the world stage. 

The rhythmic back and forth of the tennis match had nearly lulled him into a doze when his phone vibrated in his lap, making him nearly jump out of his seat. 

When he flicked the screen on, he saw the WhatsApp icon in the top corner. He flicked the screen to unlock it and thumbed open the message, relieved yet somewhat surprised to find it was from Christian. 

‘ _Sorry I didn’t answer before. I have been busy._ ’ 

‘ _That’s okay_ ,’ Vincent typed back. ‘ _I have already had lunch though._ ’ 

‘ _Are you on your way home?_ ’ 

Christian typing, according to the notification, and then, ‘ _No. I am going to Ben’s to watch the England match now._ ’ 

‘ _I will see you soon._ ’ 

And that was it. Christian’s status dropping to offline. His phone presumably stowed away for his drive to Ben’s from wherever he was. 

Leaving Vincent to… what? Sit here and try to enjoy watching tennis, apparently. 

* * *

Half an hour later, Vincent found himself still a bit confused on the specifics, but surprisingly invested in the match when his phone buzzed again—this time with the persistent ring of an incoming call. 

He picked up his phone up to see Ben’s name flashed across the screen, and slid to accept the call. 

“Ben?” 

In the background, he heard the low buzz of voices, punctuated by the occasional raucous laugh and the sound of dishware clinking together. From the sounds of things, Ben was either out somewhere—in which case… where was Christian and why had he said he was on his way to Ben’s—or he was hosting quite the gathering. 

“Vincent. Hey, mate. Where are you?” 

An odd question, given that Christian had clearly been in communication with Ben at some point that day, but… okay. 

“Um. At Christian’s. Why?” 

“Oh,” Ben said, his voice oddly flat. “You’re… what are you doing?” 

“What? Oh. I’m… watching the Wimbledon.” 

“Watching the…” Ben trailed off. “I didn’t know you followed tennis.” 

“I don’t,” Vincent said. He shifted a bit on the sofa, not quite sure of how deep he wanted to get with his problems right now. “It was on, so I thought I would leave it. It is better than listening to some commentators in a studio discuss how brilliantly Sweden has performed after being given a fortunate break into the World Cup.” 

“Ah,” Ben said, the word clipped short. “Is that why you’re not coming then?” 

“Coming where?” 

“Here. By mine. A bunch of the lads who are in town are here to watch the match. A last-minute, impromptu gathering of sorts. Didn’t Christian tell you?” 

“No,” Vincent said. “Or, rather… he mentioned that he was watching the match at your house, but that is all.” 

“What?” Ben asked, tone switching from vague confusion to annoyance. 

Vincent was about to explain to Ben that Christian had been out since that morning running some mysterious errands and all he’d mentioned was that he didn’t know when he’d be back, when Ben’s yell cut him off. 

“Christian!” 

His voice tinny and distant as though he’d dropped the phone so he could call out, which Vincent assumed was the case. 

“Christian,” he called again. “You didn’t ask Vincent to come by?” 

All Vincent heard in response was the ongoing, indistinct din of voices in the background until Ben called out again. “No. You said…” 

“What did he say?” he asked, his voice louder now as he spoke into the phone once again. 

“Hold on.” 

Vincent clicked back to his conversation with Christian, then tapped the button to put the phone on speaker and read out the text message exactly as written. It was in Dutch, of course, but he translated it into English so Ben could understand. 

And… re-reading it, Vincent still didn’t understand how anyone was supposed to get anything resembling an invitation for Vincent to come along from those words. It was vague and cryptic at best, even coming from Christian who tended not to provide you with much in the way of information at the best of times. 

Ben let out an exasperated groan followed by what Vincent presumed was a curse in Welsh then went tinny again as he resumed yelling at Christian. 

“You told him _you_ were coming by mine.” 

Vincent heard Christian say _something_ in protest, but he couldn’t make out what it was over the noise of the gathering. 

“How is anyone supposed to figure that out with absolutely zero context?” he heard Ben ask before he shifted and started speaking into the phone again. 

“Nevermind. You should come by. If you want. I don’t want to force you if it’s something you’d rather avoid. I understand wanting to give the competition a wide berth after the way it all shook out, trust me.” 

Vincent paused to give this some thought. On the one hand, it sounded like Ben had quite the group gathered and he _would_ really like to see his teammates again. He’d been glad to call many of them friends, even staying in touch with several while he was away. On the other hand, Ben wasn’t wrong. Vincent was in a foul mood that would probably be made worse by watching a match and recounting all the ways he was a huge disappointment. He didn’t need to be the guy in the corning moping about and ruining the party. 

Then again, wouldn’t it be better to watch a match surrounded by friends rather than continuing to sit here in Christian’s house alone feeling abandoned, unwanted, and sorry for himself and pretending he enjoyed tennis? 

“I think it will be good to see the others again,” he said. “I won’t be there in time for the start, of course, but I will come by.” 


	15. Chapter 15

By the time Vincent arrived at Ben’s house, the party was already in full swing.

He’d been forced to park nearly a kilometre away in the nearest carpark after driving through the neighbourhood to find every available space in any proximity to Ben’s house already occupied. This, of course, meant a 10 minute walk through the blistering London heat. Which, in turn, put paid to all the time he’d taken to turn up looking at least somewhat presentable.

Instead, his clothes were damp with sweat and his carefully arranged hair now looked little better than it would have if he’d just woken up, splashed some water all over it, and headed out the door. His only consolation was that thanks to the trim he’d gotten yesterday, it wasn’t threatening to flop down over his forehead.

He ran his hand through it a few times—hoping no one was looking out the window in Ben’s front door to see him using it as a makeshift mirror—then pressed the bell.

As soon as Ben opened the door, the low buzz of conversation drifted towards Vincent from around the corner.

On the phone, Ben had said “a last-minute gathering for a few people,” but from the looks of things he’d meant nearly the entire team—save those who were still involved in the World Cup—had turned up.

“Vincent. You’re here. Finally,” Ben said. “Come inside.”

Vincent took him up on this, wasting no time in stepping through the doorway into the blissfully cool front entry.

“I thought you said this was ‘a few people,’” he said by way of greeting. “I had to park halfway across the city.”

“That’s what you get for not turning up on time,” Ben replied. “Come on, you’ve already missed the entire first half.”

Vincent was about to protest—it wasn’t his fault that Christian was an abysmally vague communicator—but Ben was already disappearing around the corner into the living room, so Vincent put one hand against the wall to balance, tugged off his shoes, and slid them into the next available slot in the row lining the corridor.

He reached the living room just in time to hear the words “…special guest joining us.”

Ben turned to Vincent at that, stepping back and making a sweeping gesture towards Vincent with both arms, hands extended.

“Special guest?” Vincent asked him, eyebrows raised.

“Mate. Until you called me out of the blue the other day no one save Christian had seen or heard from you since Christmas. So yes. Special guest. It’s like bringing home a unicorn.”

Vincent shook his head at this. “I wasn’t aware that anyone wanted to hear from me.”

“Of course they do. Now, go greet your adoring public.”

Vincent gave Ben one last eyeroll, then followed behind him into the living room.

Almost immediately, he was surrounded by a crowd of his former teammates, everyone reaching out with handshakes and hugs and welcoming claps on the shoulder as they peppered him with what felt like a million questions at once about how he’d been and what he’d been up to all summer and how he’d liked his time at Fener. He tried to take them all in stride, returning all the greetings with fond smiles and laughs while doing his best to provide vague yet truthful answers to all the questions—especially those concerning his summer holidays, where he was staying, and his future plans with the club.

Christian, Vincent noted, was nowhere in sight.

He was definitely here. Even if he hadn’t texted Vincent to tell him so, Vincent had seen his car nestled among the others clustered in Ben’s front drive. Unless he’d popped out on foot on some errand or another, he had to be somewhere in the house.

“Sorry,” he said, twisting sideways to squeeze past the press of people still surrounding him. Most of them had dispersed into smaller groups, but GK—his self-appointed nickname as he’d deemed his full name of Georges-Kevin too much of a mouthful for everyone to say whenever they wanted his attention—and Moussa still stood around him, the three forming a little triangle as they had so many times over the years.

“Vinny, Legend. Where are you off to?” GK asked. “You’re not leaving us already. You only just turned up.”

“Right,” Moussa echoed. “Popping in out of nowhere after you vanish for a half a year.”

Vincent couldn’t help grinning at the pair. “No. Not leaving. I had to park halfway over to Enfield to get here, so I’ve worked up a big thirst. Are there drinks in the kitchen?”

Moussa gave a slow nod and rubbed his stomach in an exaggerated fashion. “And food if you want to call it that. It’s mostly vegetables. Training doesn’t start until tomorrow… I’m still ready to eat.”

“You need me to order you in some pasta?” GK teased.

“I mean... I wouldn’t say no.”

Vincent laughed at the pair, both of them trailing behind him as he made his way into the kitchen.

He had to admit, he’d missed his friends over the past year. They’d all three turned up at the club at roughly the same time and ended up bonding over their struggles of adjusting to a new league and a new city. In a short time, they had formed what they liked to half-jokingly refer to as a band of “Spurs Misfits”—new signings who had come in with so much potential but for some reason or another had never managed to factor into plans at the club.

Now, here they all were again, ready for another round of “will I somehow be good enough?” followed by the rousing refrain of “when they send me away, where will I be going this time?”

He had just turned the corner into the kitchen and was about to toss another teasing comment back at Moussa about his notoriously poor eating habits when he stopped short at the sight of a familiar blond head in front of him.

“Christian,” he started, but before he could figure out the rest of his sentence he let out an “ _oof_ ” as GK crashed into him from behind.

“Why are we stopping, Vinny. You’re pinning me back here between Moussa and the food. Never a good spot.”

Moussa gave him a shove in the shoulder, pushing him even farther forward into Vincent who had to take a few steps forward to keep from falling over. This, of course, nearly sent him crashing into Christian once again. Vincent was starting to make a habit of this.

Thankfully, Christian was becoming somewhat of an expert on avoiding Vincent and managed to sidestep before the two collided.

“There you are,” Vincent said once he’d regained his balance. “I knew you were here, but I didn’t see you.”

“Yes. I…” Christian trailed off. His eyes were glued to the floor beside Vincent’s feet as though he might somehow combust on the off chance that they made eye contact. “Just… getting some water.”

He darted further into the kitchen, dodging around Ben, who was just coming back from restocking the drinks. Ben gave him a puzzled look he pulled a glass out of the cupboard and filled it from the pitcher he retrieved from the refrigerator.

Water retrieved, Christian held up his glass in a half-salute, then disappeared around the corner at the far side of the kitchen, presumably making his way back to join the party in the living room.

“What the hell was that?” Ben asked, turning his puzzled look towards Vincent, who could only shrug.

“I have no idea,” Vincent said.

Whatever it was, it was starting to wear on him. He’d thought they’d worked things out, but Christian seemed to be back to staying as far from Vincent as possible, as though something might explode if they happened to exist for too long in the same space.

He turned towards a large bucket of ice with assorted drinks bobbing in it and pulled out the first beer he could find. He grabbed the bottle opener off the nearby counter, popped it open, and took a long swallow.

Apparently that was also becoming a habit. Vincent’s beer consumption and Christian’s avoidant behaviour seemed to be directly related.

Behind him, GK and Moussa still stood crowded around Ben’s food-laden kitchen table, GK trying to jokingly pile more and more food on top of Moussa’s plate while Moussa protested loudly in French, the two laughing non-stop. Vincent thought about dropping the whole subject, loading up his own plate, and heading back into the living room to join the party, but Ben stopped him with a hand on his elbow.

“Vincent? Is everything alright?” He kept his voice low, leaning in close to Vincent so their conversation wouldn’t be overheard. “Christian’s been odd all day. One minute he’s his regular self and then I mention your name he flashes me that deer in headlights face and looks like he’s about to bolt from the room. What’s going on with you two?”

Vincent shrugged. “I honestly do not know. I thought we had worked things out yesterday, but then this morning… You are right. He has been behaving strangely. But… I do not know.”

“Yesterday?” Ben asked. “What happened…?”

His eyes went wide. “Oh, Mate, did you tell him that you and I…? Does he know that I know about… the both of you? That would explain why he’s been a bit funny all day. He says it’s just because he’s knackered, but…”

“What? Oh. No. I didn’t. We just… how do you English say it? ‘Had some words’ last night. He was unhappy about the party and… other things, but… we managed to… work everything out. Several times.”

Ben crinkled up his nose and made a noise of protest. “That’s more than I need to know, Mate. I’m happy to support you both, but I definitely don’t need the details of what you get up to in your own time.”

Vincent shook his head and let out a low laugh. “These are hardly the details. Honestly. The things I could tell you. Do you want to know everything about that place on Christian's couch where you were so cozy yesterday?”

“Oh God,” Ben said. “Please tell me there is somewhere in that house where I’ll be able to sit down without having to wonder about whether or not you two have been at it?”

“I wouldn’t trust it if I were you,” Vincent teased. “Anyway… I thought we were doing well, but this morning he seemed in a hurry to run out of the house as soon as possible. He has been gone the whole day. Right now is actually the first time we have spoken since breakfast… if you can call it that.”

“Hm,” Ben said. “I’d offer to speak with him, but...”

Vincent shook his head vigorously. “No. That would only make things worse. He is worried about how things look and what might happen if anyone learned about our relationship, so if you tell him that you know—”

His words were cut off by a voice calling his name. A split second later, GK appeared at Vincent’s side, plate laden with grilled vegetables and smoked salmon in one hand, a bottle of juice in the other.

“The match will resume soon. Are you joining us?”

Vincent gave him a nod, then turned back to Ben. “I… appreciate the offer, but… ”

Ben held up one hand in acknowledgement. “Say no more. You know where to reach me.”

He slid past Vincent and GK and made his way into the living room. GK made to follow, but stopped to look back at Vincent. “Everything good?”

“Yes,” Vincent said, flashing him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He held up his nearly empty bottle of beer—and, honestly, he hadn’t even remembered drinking most of it—then swallowed down the last few mouthfuls and dropped the bottle into the bin Ben had set up beside the ice bucket. “Just… need to get a fresh drink.”

He dug around through the ice water until his fingers were almost painfully numb, pushing aside what felt like an entire crate of bottled water and fruit juice until he finally located another bottle of beer. He popped off the top, paused at the food table to lift two skewers of shrimp and some grilled zucchini onto a plate, then gave GK another grin and tipped his head towards the living room.

“Let’s go on before all the seats are taken.”


	16. Chapter 16

Two more steps told Vincent that his words were closer to reality than he’d thought. Although Ben had moved in what looked to be every portable chair in a three kilometre radius, there were still precious few seats remaining.

He followed GK into the room, scanning side to side in an effort to find an open place, and greeting teammates with smiles, jokes, and an occasional clink of his beer bottle against their own as he passed. He had to give Ben this, for something that he’d supposedly arranged last minute—and Vincent had to believe that was the truth since he’d not made any mention of the gathering on either of the previous evenings—he’d certainly gotten most everyone to turn up, as well as some former teammates that Vincent had only met in passing at past gatherings. Probably, that was what happened when everyone you’d ever interacted with found you irresistibly charming. Vincent wouldn’t know.

Just as he was about to give up finding a seat and resigning himself to standing for the rest of the evening, Ben stood up from where he’d been sat on the sofa and waved his arms at Vincent.

“Vincent,” he called. “You can have my seat. I need to be closer to the kitchen anyway.”

Vincent started to flash him a thankful smile, but felt it drop off his face as his eyes fell on Christian’s familiar form seated in the space beside Ben’s.

Less an act of kindness than an act of charity, then. Either way, Vincent would take it. If that’s what it took to get Christian to sit next to him and act like they might possibly enjoy one another’s company, then so be it. After all, relationship aside, it was no secret that Christian and Vincent had been friends since Vincent’s first months at Spurs. They’d become expert at existing in and amongst their teammates in the diluted role of ‘good friends and nothing more’; stopping that now would definitely call more attention to their relationship than if Vincent really did go around telling everyone he and Christian had decided to move in together.

He slid into place on the sofa, trying not to read too much into Christian immediately repositioning to move farther away from Vincent and towards Michel, who sat on Christian’s left. Vincent turned his head to look at him, giving him a small smile in an attempt to reassure him that he knew his role and he’d happily stay in it.

“Hello. Good to see you,” he said, keeping his tone polite and vaguely distant, as though he hadn’t just spent the previous evening in Christian’s bed.

Christian shifted even further to his left, his eyes staying focused on the large television mounted on the wall opposite Ben’s sofa. “Vincent.”

Vincent blew out a deep breath, set his beer bottle down on one of the coasters lined up on the end table, and balanced his plate on the sofa arm.

From Christian’s left, Michel gave Vincent a little nod above Christian’s head. “Vinny, good to see you.”

He reached a hand out across Christian’s lap to slap Vincent’s hand in greeting, Vincent having to lean towards Christian to return the gesture.

“How have you been, brother?” Michel asked, leaning back slightly so he could talk over the top of Christian’s head.

“Not bad,” Vincent replied. He didn’t need to get into the specifics of his situation in a room full of people. “What about you? How were your holidays?”

“Good. Traveled around the Maldives, so… the usual. Beach, sun, way too much food. Stopped to see the family. I can not complain.”

“Sounds nice.”

He let the subject drop and tucked into the plate of food. He wasn’t particularly hungry after his late breakfast and even later lunch, but it gave him something to do with his hands. The flavours were simple but good—the bite of olive oil and smoky, almost bitter taste of the grill char.

After a few minutes, he spared another glance at Christian, who was still doing his level best to pretend Vincent definitely wasn’t sitting less than a meter away from him. Thankfully, everyone in the room seemed to be just as focused on the match, no one paying much mind to the awkward tension radiating off their side of the sofa.

The only one who had definitely noticed was Michel, who flashed Vincent a questioning look, eyes narrowed as he flicked his gaze back and forth between Vincent and Christian. Vincent didn’t know whether or not this meant Michel knew of their relationship or was just curious as to why the two hadn’t fallen into their usual ease around one another—never usually minding a shared proximity or their legs bumping together as they sat side-by-side, Christian sometimes even falling asleep against Vincent’s shoulder during some of their later-evening gatherings.

All Vincent could do was shrug and shake his head. He didn’t have a good answer for whichever question Michel was asking anyway.

“How about you, Vinny?” Michel asked, once again leaning back to speak over the top of Christian’s head.

“Hm?” Vincent asked, trying his best to feign ignorance about what Michel was asking him.

“Anything fun on your hols?”

Beside Vincent, Christian shifted uncomfortably in his seat, leaning even farther forward now, his elbows resting on his knees, chin in hand, his whole body tight and compact.

Vincent shook his head. “The same as you, you know. I mean, different place, but the same idea—beach, sun, food, all that.”

“Yeah? You traveling solo these days, or…?”

A hot flush crept into Vincent’s face at this. Beside him, Christian let out a tiny squeak of a noise that he tried to disguise as a cough. Vincent hadn’t thought he could curl up any smaller, but he somehow managed it, his body perched on the edge of the sofa cushion as though he were ready to flee at any moment.

Vincent took pity on him and shifted a bit more to his right until the arm of the sofa was pressed painfully into his ribs. He crammed another large forkful of food into his mouth and chewed slowly and carefully, taking his time with it and hoping Michel would just let the subject drop. When he’d reduced it basically to mush, he swallowed it, then washed it down with a long, slow drink from his bottle of beer.

“I… pretty much, yes,” Vincent answered once he finished. “I mean… one of my friends from Fener was also free so it was mostly he and I. Another of our teammates joined us for a while.”

“Ah, _ja._ ” Michel said. “Nice to have teammates like that.”

“Yes,” Vincent said. “They have been good friends to me since the beginning. They actually called today to tell me that they are preparing my room in their apartment for when I return.”

Christian let out another soft cough, his hand now pressed against his mouth as though he was trying to forcibly hold the noise in.

Michel raised an eyebrow at him. “Christian? Is everything okay? Sorry for speaking over your head. Do you want to switch places?”

“Hm?” Christian said, jerking his head up to look over at Michel. “Oh. No. Everything is fine.”

The look on Michel’s face said he didn’t believe Christian in the least, but he shrugged and turned back to Vincent. “You’re back to Fener, then?”

“Nothing official yet, but… it is my hope. I like it there and it will be good to be back with friends. It is ridiculous, three grown men living together in one flat like we’re back in the under 19s again, but I think it will be fun.”

Michel let out a laugh, but before he could say anything, Christian jumped out of his seat, everyone in close proximity turning to look in his direction.

“Christian,” Michel said. “As I said… we can trade seats. Or… Vinny, let’s catch up later. Where are you staying while you’re in town?”

“No,” Christian said, his voice coming out choked and small. “It’s… I’m going to…” He gestured towards the kitchen. “I need some water. I’ll just…”

He squeezed past Michel, weaving through the scattered chairs until he reached the entrance to the kitchen. Ben, who was leaning against the wall beside the doorway, reached out a hand to grab for Christian’s wrist, but Christian just shook his head and then disappeared around the corner.

Vincent made to stand up and follow, but before he could move, Ben caught his eye with a questioning look, tipping his head towards the kitchen as if to ask whether Vincent wanted to go speak with Christian. Vincent shook his head. Whatever was going on, it definitely didn’t need to be dragged out right here and now. He sat back down on the sofa, leaned over to grab his beer, then slid into the seat Christian had previously occupied beside Michel.

Christian, when he re-emerged taking slow careful sips from a bottle of water clutched tightly in his hand, didn’t return to claim his seat, instead leaning up against the wall on the opposite side of the doorway from Ben. Neither of them said anything.

Vincent drained the last sips from his beer, and thought about getting another but decided against it lest his movement towards Christian spooked him into actually running full tilt out of Ben’s house this time. Instead, he settled back into the sofa and tried to pretend he was watching the match.


	17. Chapter 17

"Here," Vincent said, holding the last of the glassware he’d gathered up from the living room towards Ben.

Moussa followed behind him, a stack of plates in his hand. “This is the last, I think. Do you want help boxing up this food?”

Ben closed the dishwasher with a heavy click that started it whirring and spinning, and straightened up. ”No. To be honest I could have handled this much myself. But…thank you. I appreciate the help all the same."

“It's no trouble,” Moussa said. “After all, GK and I are the ones who ended up with a party at your house.”

“It’s fine,” Ben said, turning to look at Vincent, his face set in a wide, teasing grin. “Last-minute dos seem to be the thing at the moment.”

Ben led the pair down the hall towards where Christian already stood beside the door, his feet in his trainers, his cap pulled down onto his head. Vincent lingered back, doing his best to keep his teammates and plenty of space between himself and Christian. Probably not enough, by Christian's standards, but short of leaving London, Vincent wasn’t sure any amount of distance would satisfy Christian at this point.

For his part, Christian had spent the remainder of the match hovering at the edge of the room nearest the kitchen, as far away from Vincent as possible while still being plausibly part of the gathering. Vincent had tried to ignore him and focus on the match—they were in a room full of people, after all, so he hadn’t expected Christian to cozy up for a snuggle on the sofa or anything—but Vincent had felt Christian’s intentional distance opening like a growing chasm between them.

Whatever Vincent had done or not done to send Christian back into this state, he’d had about enough of it. He didn’t think he could take much more of this odd standoff between himself and Christian. He had come here with the hopes that they could crash into one another’s arms and make the most of the inevitably short time until he was whisked away again, but considering how the past two days had gone, it didn’t look like those hopes were going to become a reality very soon.

He would speak with Christian again when they both arrived home later that evening and whatever happened, happened. Maybe if he could get Christian to sit in a room with him, just the two of them, for more than five minutes in a row, they could finally get to the bottom of things.

Not that taking that tack had worked last night. Although things had ended in several exceptionally favourable outcomes—the two of them wrapped around one another, their bodies shifting and sliding together as though nothing in the world could ever tear them apart—it was clear to Vincent that whatever Christian had said and done the previous evening, they hadn’t actually resolved anything.

A vicious cycle, really. Ordinarily, Vincent wouldn’t mind skipping the serious talks and letting himself get sidetracked with some truly fantastic sex, but this was Christian. Their relationship meant more to him than any he’d ever been in before, and he’d hate to think the only reason they were still together is because they couldn’t keep their hands off one another long enough to try to fix whatever had gone wrong between them.

“Alright,” Ben said, snapping Vincent out of his woolgathering. “Now if you don’t mind, the lot of you have imposed on me quite enough for one day, I think. Out with you. I will see you all on Monday for training.”

“Not Christian,” Moussa said. “Three weeks off, is it? What are your plans?”

"I… hadn't thought about it much, honestly. Everything to this point has been about Russia and the World Cup and it's…” he shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Not jetting off to Amsterdam, then?” Moussa asked.

Vincent whipped his head around at this, trying to catch Christian’s eye to ask “what’s this about Amsterdam?”, but he had knelt down to tug on his trainers and was focused very intently on getting the laces tied just right.

“It's easier to have a holiday at the end of a season,” Christian said, his voice matter-of-fact. “That way you can take your time and rest and then use the weeks before training to get back into match fitness. Now, I've been match fit and you lot want me to go lounge around somewhere for three weeks? I'll be no good for the first month of the season at least."

"As if you'd let yourself get out of shape," GK said with a laugh.

He tugged the door open, letting out a soft groan as the heat from outside rushed into the house. ”I know I’d like to be back on holiday. This heat is no joke. Vinny, are you leaving?”

“Hm?” Vincent asked, shifting his gaze from Christian to his friends. “Oh. No. I think… I will stay and help Ben finish cleaning up, if it is okay.”

"You don't need to stay," Ben said. “There’s almost nothing left to do. I can manage it.”

"I don't mind. You've helped me out enough over the past few days. It is the least I can do."

 _Besides_ , he thought, _I might as well linger here as long as possible. Put off having this confrontation with Christian as long as possible_.

“Suit yourself,” Ben said. “I won’t refuse the help. Christian? Are you staying or going?”

“Going, thanks,” Christian said, straightening up and shifting towards the door. “I still have some errands to run and it is getting late.”

“Right,” Ben said. “I forgot you had things to do before we co-opted you for the afternoon. Go on then. I’ll see you… sometime, I’m sure. A few weeks at least, but we should get together before then if you’re around and have the time.”

“Yes,” Christian responded. “I will let you know.”

He stepped out the door, following after GK and Moussa without so much as a “goodbye” towards Vincent.

Vincent sidestepped around Ben and stuck his head out the door.

“Christian. Will I see you at home then?”

This caused all three men to pause and turn to face Vincent.

“Home?” GK said. “Ah, Vinny are you staying by Chris while you are in town then?”

“Yes,” Vincent said. “For the time. I’m not sure how long.”

He turned back to Christian to find him curled into himself, his eyes wide, his face flushed red from his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears, though from anger or embarrassment or the heat of the day, Vincent didn’t know.

Christian didn’t speak at first, his jaw clenched tight as he flashed Vincent a look that was sharp enough to cut.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked when he finally spoke. “Since you are staying in my guestroom.” He put extra emphasis on the last word.

“I don’t know,” Vincent said. “You haven’t been home all day, so…”

“That’s my fault,” Ben cut in quickly. “We did get him hopelessly sidetracked. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s bloody hot out here and I don’t fancy letting it all into my house. Go, all of you. I’ll see you when I see you.”

Ben waved everyone off to their vehicles and then slid back in the house and shut the door, leaving him and Vincent alone in the front entryway. Neither of them moved for a moment, both standing there staring awkwardly at one another, until Ben raised both his hands up to cradle the back of his head and blew out a long breath.

“Mate. Not being funny, but… what the actual fuck was that?”

Vincent let out a sarcastic laugh. “Which part? I think I need you to be more specific.”

“You. And Christian. Ducking and dodging around one another. And the lethal looks you two kept shooting back and forth. And then at the end… you two being all… whatever. Honestly.”

“Honestly,” Vincent started. “I don’t know. As I said earlier, I have not seen Christian all day. I thought we had worked out whatever was going on between us, but then this morning he just dashed out of the house and the first time we spoke was here. If you can call it ‘speaking’.”

“Ah. Yes,” Ben said. “I thought it was odd that you weren’t with him this morning, but what do I know about your relationship? I mean… it’s none of my business anyway, but it would make sense, you seeing other people, since you’re hardly ever in the same place.”

“What?” Vincent still swiveled his head around to look at him so hard he felt something in his shoulder pop.

“Oy. Keep that up and your head’s going to tip straight off your shoulders, Mate.”

“Fair,” Vincent said, rubbing at the growing sore spot in his neck. “But… what are you talking about, us seeing other people? Who is Christian seeing?”

The last words flew out of Vincent’s mouth in a rush of breath. He felt, suddenly, like a rather large boulder had taken up residence in his chest, leaving him choking a bit and struggling for breath at the idea that perhaps the reason Christian had been acting so odd all this time was that he’d found someone new in the months Vincent was away—moved on with his life and wanted to do Vincent the courtesy of telling him in-person, and not over the phone.

But… none of that explained the previous evening, Christian coming apart beneath Vincent, his declarations of love screamed out into the silence of the night. It certainly didn’t explain their clandestine meeting the night before Christian’s first World Cup match, Christian taking a risk and sneaking out of the team hotel just to be with Vincent.

“We’re not seeing other people. At least… I’m not. And if Christian is, then…” he let the rest of the sentence die on his lips, not ready to venture into that particular territory just yet.

“Who am I supposedly seeing?” he asked Ben instead.

“I dunno. I thought… the other night. So… you’re not involved with your teammate?”

“Who? Christian? Of course I am. You know this.”

Ben shook his head vigorously back and forth. “No. Not Christian. I mean, besides Christian. The other one. From Fener. The one in all your photos from hols.”

At this, Vincent felt his eyes fly open impossibly wide, and he had to slap a hand over his mouth in a futile attempt to stop the rush of laughter from bursting out at him. Because Ben was a generally decent sort, and it wouldn’t do for Vincent to start uncontrollably laughing right in his face in the middle of his own kitchen. It just wouldn’t.

“I take it that’s a no, then.” Ben said, his own voice breaking with laughter as he looked over at Vincent.

“The largest no you can imagine. Roman is… he’s a friend. A good one. But… I don’t see him that way. I never will. He’s more like… another brother to me.”

“My mistake then,” Ben said, holding up one hand in apology. “But, honestly, you can’t blame a bloke. All those photos of you laying out on the beach together on holiday. You have to admit it looked a bit… So… I sort of assumed…”

“Eh. This is not the first time I am hearing this,” Vincent said. “Christian himself was convinced Roman and I were together for a time. But… no. And as for the photos, I only showed you the ones with Roman because I didn’t want to speak of what I actually did on my summer, but since you now know…”

He dug around in his pocket until he fished out his phone, then flipped back through the photos until he found the ones he was looking for—him clad head to toe in Denmark gear at the various World Cup fan fests, along with photos of him standing in front of a whole suite of notable Russian landmarks—then held it out to Ben.

Ben scanned through them, his face slowly sliding into a wide, teasing grin as he scrolled.

“Oh. My. God,” he said, turning to Vincent, mouth agape. “Look at you. You’re a proper superfan, aren’t you? You spent your summer touring around Russia to watch Christian at the World Cup? I love it, Mate. Like… I think this is the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. Vincent Janssen, proper WAG.”

“Leave off,” Vincent said, grabbing his phone back from Ben and shoving it in his pocket. “Not a word of this. To anyone. Ever.”

“Oh, Mate, that’s asking a lot of a person. You honestly expect me never to bring this up? What am I supposed to speak about during my toast at your wedding if not… this?”

Vincent let out a snort of laughter at that. He wasn’t even sure there would be a relationship much longer and here Ben was talking about a wedding.

“You’re a bit too optimistic about things, I think,” he said. “Considering Christian doesn’t even want to be in the same room as me currently.”

“You’ll work it out,” Ben said, sounding far more confident than Vincent felt. “He’s just… give him some time to readjust. When you left, well, let’s just say he took it hard.”

“As if I wanted to leave,” Vincent said, his voice harsh in his own ears.

“No. Of course not. I never said you did. But…” Ben shrugged. “Never mind. Just… you know how Christian is with feelings.”

“Mm,” Vincent said. “I’m not sure I know how Christian is with anything these days..”

He swallowed around the rock that had once again started rising in his throat. Probably, he should leave things alone; go home and wait for Christian to hopefully turn up and then ask him what he’d been up to all day. Slide things casually into conversation and let Christian be the one to explain who he’d rushed out of the house in such a hurry to meet up with, but… Ben was here, and he might as well prepare himself for whatever might be coming when he spoke with Christian.

“So…”

Deep breath, Vinny. It’s probably nothing. Just ask.

“What is… all this about Christian on a coffee date?”

“Hm. Forget I called it a date,” Ben said. “It’s a funny story, really. It’s actually how this whole gathering got thrown together in the first place. I was out with GK and Moussa trying to find some breakfast and who do we bump into but Christian out and about having coffee with the enemy.”

“The enemy? Who is this? As far as I know Christian is not close with anyone at Arsenal.”

“Christian didn’t tell you?”

Vincent threw his head back and groaned up at Ben’s ceiling. “No. He didn’t. He doesn’t tell me much of anything these days. In fact, it is probably best if you assume Christian has told me absolutely nothing about anything.”

“Right. Well.” Ben raised his eyebrows. He looked like he wanted to press Vincent for more information, but clearly changed his mind.

“Daley Blind, of all people,” Ben said. “As if a Manchester club is better. Anyway…”

Ben was still speaking, but Vincent was no longer listening. The mention of Daley’s name had hit him like a ball kicked square into his chest from a few metres out.

Daley Blind.

Christian had rushed out the door leaving Vincent with his trousers down—quite literally—without so much as a by-your-leave or any mention of where he was going so he could have coffee with Daley Blind, of all people?

He bit down hard on his tongue and forced himself to hold it together, to drag air into his aching lungs and just breathe. Fingernails digging caverns into his palm as he balled his hands into fists, and he welcomed the pain of it, turned his focus toward it.

What he wanted, was to turn around and slam those fists as hard as he possibly could into the nearest surface, broken bones and broken walls be damned.

But this was Ben’s house, and he couldn’t risk any injury at all if he had any hopes of getting out of London any time soon.

_Another breath. Focus on Ben’s voice still recounting the events of the day._

“… I mentioned our do at Christian’s last night for the match and the next thing you know GK and Moussa are on the phone inviting the entire city to mine this afternoon and, well, here we are.”

“Here we are,” Vincent repeated, the words coming out soft and slow.

He shoved off the wall he’d been leaning against and made his way through the kitchen into the dining area where plates of grilled vegetables and assorted dressings and side dishes still lay on their various platters.

“Do you have containers for these?” He asked Ben, who just stared at him for a few moments before he turned around to rummage through the cupboards until he produced a handful of glass containers in several different sizes.

“Here.” He handed them to Vincent, then joined him at the table, the two of them lifting food from trays and dropping it into the containers.

They worked in silence for several minutes. Everything felt stretched tight, ready to snap at the slightest movement. Vincent hardly dared to breathe lest he break things open and everything inside him came flooding out right here in Ben’s kitchen.

It was Ben, of course, who spoke first, his voice unusually quiet. His face had gone suddenly serious, an expression Vincent rarely saw him wear outside of the football pitch.

“Vin. Are you alright?”

And wasn’t that and interesting question? Vincent could cover the front and at least half the back of an A4-sized paper with all the reasons he had to not be alright, but Ben didn’t need to know about most of them.

“Am I…?” Vincent responded. “I… I don’t know, really. Should I not be?”

“I dunno, Mate, you tell me. You certainly don’t look alright. Is this about Christian?” He held one hand up in front of him. “Who am I kidding, of course it’s about Christian. Sorry if I overstepped with things—calling it a date or whatnot. It was a joke, really. I’m sure it was nothing. It looked like nothing. I mean, I thought it was odd, you not also being there since Daley’s your teammate with _Oranje_ , but… ah.”

His words almost skidded to a stop as his eyes flashed his understanding. “Daley Blind.”

Vincent looked up to meet Ben’s eyes and nodded slowly, willing his face to stay calm and his voice not to break.

“I thought as much,” Ben said. “Do you two not get on then?”

“No,” Vincent said. “Or… I mean. Yes. I mean… he’s fine. I don’t consider him a friend or anything, but it isn’t as though we hate one another. He’s… I don’t know, actually. It’s… we have not spoken in close to a year, so…”

He leaned across Ben to lift up the stack of lids sitting on the far edge of the table and began snapping them on, the sound ringing out loudly in the comparative quiet of the room.

Ben said nothing for long moments, slipping a few of the lids out from the stack and pressing them into place on their containers along with Vincent before stacking everything up and carrying them to the refrigerator.

Vincent followed with his own armful of containers, passing them off to Ben who slotted them into place alongside the others.

It wasn’t until he’d set the last of the leftovers into the refrigerator and shut the door that Ben finally spoke.

“I’m sorry.”

“Hm?” Vincent said, turning his head to meet Ben’s eyes. “For what? You did nothing wrong.”

“I just… Daley. Sorry I mentioned it. Honestly, if I’d have known invoking that name, would lead to you looking for all the world like you’re about to leave here primed for a fight, I would have glued my lips together.”

And, really, Vincent couldn’t help but laugh out loud at the idea of Ben Davies not speaking ever again.

Ben rolled his eyes, but he, too, joined in on the laughter.

“So,” he asked once he’d regained himself. “What _is_ the story then? Because, honestly, Mate, you looked fit to kill when I told you I ran into Christian and him out for coffee.”

What is it? Vincent thought. Nothing big. Just Christian rushing out of Vincent’s arms for secret coffee dates with his ex, who he refuses to speak of and claims he wants nothing to do with ever again.

“It…” Vincent said. “It doesn’t matter. I just didn’t know he and Christian were close.”

“They used to be teammates though, didn’t they?” Ben asked. “Back at Ajax?”

“Yes,” Vincent replied. “They… never mind.”

“No,” Ben said. “I just. Sorry. I thought… I thought you and Daley were friends as well. I remember our match against Man United… it was when we were closing down the Lane, so I remember that day like it was yesterday. I was standing and speaking with Christian and you were off across the way with Daley and he kept getting distracted looking over at you. It was charming really. I tried to ask him about it and he got all flustered and changed the subject. And now here you are and I mention Daley and you look like you’re about to go out on the rampage and… oh my god!”

He clapped both hands over his mouth, his eyes wide as he stared over at Vincent.

“What?” Vincent asked, narrowing his eyes at Ben. “What’s so funny to you?”

Ben peeled his hands away from his mouth, his face a mix of surprise and amusement. He pressed his lips together and gave a little shimmy like a child who had just been told he was about to go on a holiday to the amusement park.

“Oh. My. God,” he said again. “You and Daley Blind.”

“Me and… what?” Vincent said, cocking his head to one side as he looked over at Ben. “What about me and Daley Blind?”

“You used to be an item, didn’t you? That’s why you’re so upset about him being mates with Chris.” Ben spoke the words with so much utter glee that it actually took a minute for them to sink in to Vincent’s brain.

This time, Vincent was unable to hold in the explosive snort of laughter that burst out of him at the very idea that he could ever possibly even think about beginning to involve himself romantically with Daley Blind.

“I…” he said, gasping and choking around the waves of laughter that would not stop coming, his whole body shaking with it. “That’s…”

Another burst of laughter, Vincent now staggering backward to lean against Ben’s kitchen counter, hands resting on his knees as he bent forward and tried to catch his breath. Tears streamed out of the corners of his eyes and he could feel the hot rush of blood to his face, his head and his cheeks aching with it all.

“So I’ll take that as a no, then,” Ben said, his own face pink as he grinned at Vincent.

“You cannot…” Vincent said, then shook his head. “I spoke incorrectly earlier about Roman. This is the largest ‘no’ you can possibly imagine.”

“Point taken,” Ben said. “So… what’s the story then? There’s obviously something between the two of you.”

“I promise you, there is nothing at all between Daley and me.”

Here, he put the slightest emphasis on the last word. He wasn’t about to give Ben the particulars about Christian’s past with Daley—not that Vincent knew enough about the particulars to give any—but Ben was smart enough to know that Vincent wasn’t telling him the whole truth, and he’d likely put all the pieces together soon enough.

“Okay,” Ben said, sounding for all the world like he didn’t believe Vincent in the least before his eyes widened and he nodded his understanding.

“Ah. I… oh,” he said. “That’s… Chris and Daley? Really? I mean, I don’t know Daley well at all, but just based on… well, I wouldn’t have guessed is all.”

“No. When I found out, it was… I do know Daley and I can tell you that it makes even less sense to me. But…” He shrugged. “I don’t know. Christian doesn’t speak about it. According to him things ended badly and he wants nothing at all to do with Daley if he can avoid it.”

“Ah,” Ben said again. “Hence your reaction at them having a coffee. I don’t know. I mean, I wasn’t there for the whole thing, of course, but he seemed fine when we turned up. It sounded like they were speaking about the two of them taking some time in Amsterdam to visit with some of their former teammates.”

“What?” Vincent asked, once again whipping his head up so hard it made something in his neck ache. “Amsterdam? Christian is going to Amsterdam? With Daley?”

“Don’t ask me, Mate. All I know is they were speaking about it. But it sounded like he was thinking about going. I thought it was odd since he’d just gotten back, and I thought he’d want to be here with you as much as possible, but…”

“So did I,” Vincent said. “At least… I did until this afternoon. I think… if you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time I had a word with Christian.”


	18. Chapter 18

The first thing Vincent did upon reaching his vehicle after what felt like an hour of walking through the streets of residential East Barnet, was flick the air conditioning on full blast, lean back in the driver’s seat, and take a deep breath. The forced air washed in cool waves over his sweat-damp skin, and he took a minute to just bask in it.

He knew needed to head back to Christian’s and face the inevitable fight that was ahead of him. It had been building for days now, the resolution of the previous evening only a temporary bandage over a wound that, if left too long, would start to fester until the only thing left to do was remove the entire limb.

He’d thought—hoped, if he was being honest with himself--that Christian had just been tired from his travels and still shaken up from the World Cup loss. Vincent had been in that situation, and it took a lot out of even the most mentally strong people he’d ever played alongside. Christian had the hopes and dreams of an entire country on his shoulders and failed to step up when it counted. When he thought about it, Vincent didn’t begrudge him a few days of space from real life in the least.

Whatever was happening, Vincent kept coming back to the question of “why?”: Why had Christian suddenly stopped answering his messages? Why did he keep at best giving Vincent a brushoff and at worst blatantly disregarding his presence? Why was he having secret coffee with Daley Blind? And most of all, why was he a completely different person from one moment to the next?

This, of course, was followed by the question of “what?”, namely, what had Vincent done to trigger this reaction and what was he planning to do about it?

And…that was precisely the answer he was trying to avoid.

He straightened up, flipped on the stereo, and dialed up some music on his phone—opting for the playlist he usually reserved for a particularly difficult training session when he knew he needed to fire up and push through, no matter how much his muscles ached and he longed to quit. It seemed appropriate for this situation.

He knew what he needed to do, but that didn’t make it any easier.

* * *

All things considered, Vincent really shouldn’t have been surprised to find Christian’s parking stall vacant and the house dark and silent when he arrived. Honestly, despite Christian saying he’d see Vincent at home, Vincent would have been more surprised to actually find Christian there waiting for him.

Vincent once again found himself pulling his phone out of his pocket, ready to send off another text asking where Christian was and when he would be back, but he stopped short. What was the point, really? Christian would return home or he won’t. Why should Vincent bother wasting his time on someone who didn’t seem to have any time for him?

And there was a question. Christian had extended the invitation for Vincent to move in half a year ago now. A lot could change in that time, and Vincent knew Christian well enough to know that he was too polite to rescind the offer. He hadn’t come out and said it, but his actions over the past few days had made it clear that he didn’t particularly want to be anywhere near Vincent.

He could take a hint. He didn’t need to wait around for Christian to finally have had enough and ask him to leave, and he certainly didn’t want to go through any more days like this one while he waited for the foundation to finally collapse. No. It was time for him to go.

He took the stairs to the upper level two-at-a-time, then rushed into the spare room and yanked his suitcases out from where he’d stashed them away only a few hours ago.

It figured, really. He finally decided to unpack in some foolish hope that maybe it would help him start feeling settled here; that he’d be able to integrate his life in with Christian’s and they’d somehow fall back into the easy rhythm they’d shared during his other short stays in London. That perhaps, magically, he wouldn’t have to put everything back into its suitcases and fly off again to some unknown destination, probably never to return.

Instead, his clothing had found a resting place for no more than a few hours before he was pulling it from hangers and shelves and stuffing it all back into his suitcases. He paid no mind to any sort of organisation or whether he was ruining all the crisp folds. He just wanted to get it over with, pack his bags, leave this house, and pretend he had never come back to London to find his whole relationship falling apart around him.

One suitcase jammed full, Vincent shoved it to the side and turned to the second. This one, he kicked at until it lay sprawled open in front of the sofa, then went to the closet and wrapped his arms around as many of the shirts, jackets, and trousers he’d hung in there earlier that day as he could grasp. He dropped them into a jumble on the sofa, then sat down beside them, yanking out hangers and letting the items fall in a heap inside the suitcase.

He took a moment to look around the small room, taking mental stock of all his belongings so he wouldn’t leave anything here and have to make arrangements with Christian to get it back. The sofa itself would have to stay behind, of course, but he’d have someone from the club get it moved it out sent along to wherever he found himself when the time came. Hopefully Christian could deal with it taking up his space for a few more weeks.

If not, well, Roman and Martin already had a perfectly serviceable sofa in their hired flat—one that wouldn’t make Vincent think about all the moments he’d spent beside Christian on this one: the first night Christian had come to his flat to watch compiled film of Liverpool matches on Vincent’s laptop, the tension between the two of them already palpable as Christian carefully kept his distance, leaning over almost comically far whenever he pointed something out on the screen.

Or the night Christian had called Vincent from Enfield before the match against Arsenal, begging a ride and a bit of company. That had been the first time he’d reached out to Vincent on a personal level instead of keeping things on the professional side of the teammates to friends to… whatever this was continuum. He’d looked so vulnerable and wrecked when he’d climbed into Vincent’s car that it had taken every ounce of Vincent’s strength not to pull him in close and kiss him right there in the Enfield carpark.

Eventually, they’d settled in on the sofa in Vincent’s flat and it had been Christian who had leaned in close, dropping his head to Vincent’s shoulder and whispering his thanks into the dark. It had all been too perfect and too close and too much and Vincent had given in, wrapping an arm around Christian’s waist to pull him even closer. When Christian hadn’t immediately thrown himself away from Vincent in protest, Vincent had pressed an experimental kiss to the top of Christian’s head, his silk-soft hair tickling Vincent’s nose; the scent that Vincent had since then come to think of as home filling the air around him.

Christian had let out a soft noise, and Vincent had frozen stiff, ready to hastily scream out his apologies and tell Christian he hadn’t meant it and he’d lost himself for a moment—that he was in the middle of a huge situation with his girlfriend who had moved out of the flat and back to the Netherlands because she felt Vincent wasn’t giving her the time and attention that she deserved—when Christian had shifted around to stare into Vincent’s eyes. For the first time, Vincent had seen something there. That spark. That wide-eyed understanding as the pieces clicked into place.

A look of surprise, Christian’s mouth dropping open, and the next thing Vincent knew his own mouth was wrapped in a soft, wet warmth, tasting faintly of citrus and vinegar from the salad Christian had picked up on the way to Vincent’s flat. Vincent’s heart had actually skipped a beat. He’d thought that was only for fairy stories and daytime television dramas, but there he had been, his pulse pounding in his head and his entire body on fire as Christian had dragged him closer and made every late-night teenage dream Vincent ever had feel mundane and unimaginative.

Christian had ended up falling asleep on the sofa, his head cradled against Vincent’s shoulder, and Vincent had hardly dared move for fear of waking Christian—or himself from this dream he’d fallen into—and ruining this perfect moment that he’d wanted for so many years but never even imagined might be reality.

And that was enough of this. He wasn’t doing himself any favours by dredging up the memories of the way this whole mess had started. He should never have let it get to that point, and when it had, he should have found the courage to step back and do what needed to be done. They were teammates in a world that wasn’t exactly favourable to who they were, and on top of that, as Christian liked to remind him, in football there were no guarantees.

Shelves and wardrobe empty, Vincent snagged his laptop from where it lay atop the glass-topped desk, shoved it into his backpack along with a few odds and ends and the overnight kit he kept ready for his frequent travels, swung the bag on his shoulder, grabbed his two suitcases by the handles, and hauled the whole mess downstairs.

When he reached the entryway, he pushed one bag in front of himself and dragged the other behind, wheels kicking up a racket on the floorboards as he made his way towards the door. He had no idea where he was heading from here, but there was no shortage of hotel rooms in and around London. He’d drive north to the neighbourhoods near Enfield—preferring to stay as close to the training centre as possible—book himself into some accommodations, and sort things out with the team on Monday.

He fished around in his pocket for his ring of keys, pulled it out, then pried open the loop until he could twist it around and remove the long, square-headed key that unlocked Christian’s house. It had been nestled there for so long now that the ring looked empty and vacant despite still holding the remainder of his keys—one for his parents’ house in Oss and another for the car he’d purchased after moving to Spurs, now also residing in Oss with his father.

Vincent stared down at the lone key, now sitting impossibly heavy in his palm, and found his vision starting to blur as hot tears stung at the corners of his eyes and threatened to spill down his cheeks. He wiped at them with the back of his other hand, but they rushed straight back. His whole body felt tight and hot, like he was being compressed from all sides, the air being forced from his lungs—his chest burning and a boulder rising up in his throat.

 _So this is how it ends_ , he thought. _Me standing here sobbing in Christian’s front entry and Christian not even bothered to be around for it_. He had to laugh for that, huffing out a breath through his nose that trailed off into a sniffling sob.

He gave one more vicious swipe at his eyes with the back of his hand then opened his hand over the small bowl that rested on the low table beside the door, the place Christian had set up to hold keys and billfolds and anything else he didn’t want to leave the house without. The key fell into it with a clink that seemed to echo ominously around him in the stillness of the empty house.

A beat, Vincent standing there staring down at the key now nestled into the heavy glass bowl for what might have been a few seconds or might have been hours, all the memories of his life with Christian, such as it had been, flooding in and swirling around him until he was nearly sick with it. If he had known this is what it would come to—that this would be the way it all ended—would he still have let it start.

What was the old adage? Something about enjoying the journey. Better to have loved and lost and all that.

Sure. Tell it to the raw, red, gaping hole in his chest where his heart had been before he’d ripped it out and tossed it here in the care of someone who had no desire for it.

He reached out for the doorknob, but paused before pulling open the door. Fitting as it was, he didn’t want his last memory of this place be him packing up all his belongings and sneaking out in the dark of night, never to be heard from again. Probably, that’s what he should have done a year ago, but now… well, whatever Christian’s feelings about him were, Vincent at least owed it to himself to say goodbye.

Christian kept a spare stack of paper and a handful of assorted writing implements on the table beside the bowl for his keys. Vincent tore a sheet off the pad, grabbed the first pen he found, then headed into the kitchen and dropped them both to the kitchen island.

Pen in hand, poised over the slip of paper.

So many thoughts swirling in his head: of nights spent wrapped up in each other’s arms; smiles and laughs together on the training pitch, Christian’s hand lingering a moment too long on Vincent’s arm before he pulled away; secret kisses stolen in back rooms and back gardens when their friends and teammates weren’t looking; slow, lazy mornings over mugs of coffee, both of them leaned up here in this exact spot, shoulders and hips bumping together.

And what could Vincent say now? _Goodbye, Christian. It’s been fun. I don’t know when I will see you again. I don’t know where everything went wrong, with Spurs, with us, with my entire life, but it’s clear to me that I belong anywhere but here_.

He settled on a simple: _Thank you for letting me stay with you while I was in town. I thought it was best if I—_

“Vincent?”


	19. Chapter 19

Christian’s voice rang out startlingly loud in the silence of the house, making Vincent jump, the pen dragging a jagged blue line against the page.

Vincent spun around, unsure whether to abandon his luggage and attempt to sneak out through the back garden and make a run for it, or whether to stay here, face Christian, and have this out.

In the end, Christian didn’t give him a choice.

He turned the corner into the kitchen and slid up beside Vincent. With a rustle of plastic, he lifted a shopping bag to the kitchen island and lifted out two pre-packaged Tesco salads.

“There you are. Here, I brought you some dinner. It’s not a lot, but we did eat at Ben’s. If you need more…” He tipped his head to the side and looked over at Vincent, pen and paper still in hand. “What are you doing?”

 _Trying to sneak out of your house under the cover of darkness_ , Vincent thought.

But, really, never mind what Vincent was doing, what was _Christian_ doing? He’d rushed out of the house this morning to meet his ex for coffee, then spent all day avoiding Vincent, and here he was bringing home supermarket salads and acting like everything in the world was perfectly normal?

He wanted to scream. To find the nearest object and throw it against a wall until he heard something crash. To collapse to his knees and slam his fists against the floor until they were bleeding and raw.

“Leaving,” he said, dropping the pen onto the table and stalking past Christian towards the front entry where his suitcases sat waiting for him.

Probably, he should let Christian explain. Should ask him about Daley and where he’d been all day and why he was avoiding him, but if Vincent was being honest, he didn’t trust himself to have that conversation without somehow ending up back in Christian’s arms and then back in his bed, starting the cycle all over again.

Christian trailed a few steps behind, peppering Vincent with a string of questions.

“What? Leaving? Where are you… oh?”

He stopped short, his footsteps falling silent, but Vincent couldn’t bring himself to turn around and meet his eyes.

“Are you…?” Christian asked. “Oh, God, Vincent did a transfer come through? It’s Saturday, so I didn’t expect… but…” He sucked in a loud breath, taking a moment to steady his trembling voice before speaking again, slower and with all the practiced, measured calm of one teammate inquiring about the future plans of another.

“Where are you going this time?”

Vincent took his own deep, settling breath, then turned around and flicked his eyes open to meet Christian’s.

_Stay calm, Vinny. Strong and steady. You know what you need to do. It’s better for everyone this way._

Then why did it already feel like someone had started carving his heart out of his chest with a knife?

Vincent bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, grounding himself in the pain of it to take his mind off what he was about to say, about to do. As much as he knew it would absolutely gut him to walk away from everything he thought they had built over the past year and a half, there was no way he could go through another day like this one.

Christian had invited him into his home. He'd given him a space in his life physically as well as emotionally and the second he turned up to claim that space, Christian had begun shoving him out of it.

Were they just supposed to continue on like this—Christian pushing him away and pretending they weren’t even friends whenever anyone might be looking and then coming to him in the evening with a peace offering and pretending nothing had even been amiss?

Maybe, if Vincent opened up the distance between them on his own terms he and Christian would at least be able to return to the way they were before all of this started. It wasn't what Vincent wanted, of course, but he'd rather be able to call Christian a friend rather than… whatever this was. A former teammate who he'd fallen out of touch with once he left the club. Someone he used to know way back in a different lifetime.

“Does it matter?” he asked, words coming out coated in ice as he forced himself to keep his focus on Christian. “Wherever I am, it is obvious that you don’t care. As long as it’s not here.”

“What? Vince… I don’t… why would you think that? Of course I care where you are.”

“Do you?” Vincent asked. “Because I’ve been here in your house for a week now and I think we’ve spoken for a total of maybe half an hour. The rest of the time we might as well be halfway across the world since you’re never around.”

“I am here,” Christian said. “I’ve been busy today, yes, but… I’m here now. I brought you dinner and I thought we could sit and eat and catch up on… everything.”

“Catch up?” Vincent asked. “On what? I’ve been sitting around your house all alone doing nothing. Now you know my whole week. As for what you’ve been doing, well, Ben filled me in on the specifics, so… there is nothing to say.”

He turned back towards his baggage, grabbed at the handle and started half-kicking, half-dragging the luggage closer to the door.

“Vincent? Where are you going? Back to Istanbul, or… at least tell me.”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t… do you have to leave now? Surely your flight won’t be until tomorrow? It’s nearly 9:00 in the evening.”

He blew out a breath through his nose, the hot stone welling up in his throat again, threatening to choke off his air supply until it strangled him to death. He dropped his suitcase handles and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hands. He refused to turn around, knowing whatever resolve was left in him would crumble the moment he met Christian’s eyes.

“I’m not…” he started.

He bit down hard on his lower lip and forced himself to concentrate on his breath.

_Just say the words, Vincent. Stay strong. Say the words. Do what needs to be done for once in your life._

“I’m not leaving London. I’m leaving… here. It’s… I’m moving out.” Vincent sucked in a breath, doing his best to hold back a choked sob. “It’s clear that this… it’s not working out. So…”

“What?” Christian’s voice breaking around the word, and it was everything Vincent could do not to run to him and wrap him up and hold him tight, tears turning to laughter as they kissed away their troubles, falling into bed and pretending everything between them was alright again, starting the whole cycle over once more.

When Christian finally spoke, his voice was almost impossibly small.

“Why?”

At this, Vincent spun around to face him, the soles of his shoes squeaking over the floorboards.

“Why?” The word came out harsher than he'd intended, filled with forty-eight hours of tiptoeing around and holding himself in check and wondering exactly what the hell he'd done that made Christian resent his very presence from the moment he'd stepped through the door.

“I don’t know, Chris. I just… what am I supposed to do? I spend all day sitting alone in your house while you rush away with no explanation to have coffee with your ex, who you claim you want nothing to do with. You don’t tell me where you are or when you will be home. Then when I finally see you, you treat me as someone you dislike but have to tolerate because we’re technically on the same club. And now here you are arriving home with dinner as though nothing is wrong between us?”

Christian’s mouth dropped open, and he said nothing for long moments as he stared over at Vincent.

Vincent let the silence stretch between them until he thought he might be crushed under the weight of it. Christian’s lack of response shouting his feelings even louder than if he’d screamed and thrown things and demanded that Vincent leave his house and never come back.

“We used to be friends, Christian,” he said at last. “Before everything. Do you remember? Now… I wonder if I am even that.”

After a few moments, Christian let out a deep sigh and rubbed his hands over his face, his cheeks coming away pink from the effort.

"Why would you think this?"

"Maybe because you've clearly been unhappy ever since you arrived home and I don't know why. I thought yesterday that it was just that I sort of sprung a surprise party on you and you were tired but then today at Ben's… it just seemed like you wanted to be anywhere but near me."

Christian gave a curt nod before looking away from Vincent once more, eyes now focused on the floorboards, a telltale sign that he was pulling back and closing up once more—stuffing his emotions back down into the box of repression he stored them in.

Other people might fall for that act, and on another day Vincent might have let it go—shaken it off and let things go and taken whatever Christian was willing to give. If Christian was willing to pretend everything was fine, then Vincent would pretend right alongside him and they could go on forever and ever never talking about anything important.

But not today.

"Sure, Christian," Vincent said. "Clearly everything is fine and no one is having any feelings about anything."

" _Flikker op_ ," Christian said. "You sound like Toby. And I don't mean that in a good way."

" _Is_ there a good way to mean that?" Vincent said under his breath.

"What?" Christian’s eyes flashing, his words sharp.

"Nothing."

"Oh. I see. Who's keeping things from people now?"

"I am just trying to give you what you want," Vincent said, holding both hands up in front of his face in a gesture of resigned surrender.

"Is this what _you_ want?"

"Since when does anyone care about what I want?"

They both went silent at that, neither of them daring to move, Vincent's words hanging heavy in the air between them. They stared at one another, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

It was Christian who spoke first, his voice back to measured, controlled calm. "What do you want, Vincent?"

And there it was. _Serves you right, Vinny. You set yourself up to get asked an impossible question that you don't have an answer for._

What did he want?

He wanted to rewind time. To do things over again. To start again from the day he'd signed on with Tottenham Hotspur. To figure out a way to make everything work this time—to treasure every moment of his time with Christian while somehow managing to score goals and take chances and be the striker Pochettino wanted him to be. He wanted to stay. He wanted to move into Christian's house and fall asleep beside him every night and wake up next to him every morning for the rest of their lives. And he wanted Christian to want that, too.

He cleared his throat, trying to open up a space around the rock that had grown there. “I want…”

' _I want things to be like they were_ ' were the words he didn't say.

That was an impossible dream. He'd come to terms with the fact that his future wasn't at Spurs and it wasn't in London and it probably wasn't in England, at least not in the foreseeable future. He'd reached too far and he hadn't been ready and he'd fallen down once again. Only this time, he'd managed to drag someone else into things with him.

Christian's future wasn't at Spurs either, and it wasn't in London, and it wasn't in England, but not for the same reasons as Vincent's. Where Vincent's future was stepping back and reassessing and dropping down to somewhere with less pressure and fewer expectations and less glory, Christian's was the opposite. Bright and shining and brilliant as the sun—Barcelona, the World Cup. Christian tucked amidst his teammates lifting yet another trophy, smiling and laughing, his shirt damp with sweat and water and champagne, confetti and streamers plastered to his hair and his skin.

And Vincent, sitting at home watching it all on a screen.

Expectant blue eyes stared at him, and Vincent had to look away.

"I want to be good enough for you," he said, forcing the words out, his voice choked and strained sounding odd in his ears. "I want to play football and be someone you can be proud of and be, well, not your equal of course, but… on your level. Good enough to compete and to stop holding you back.”

Christian made a low, strangled noise from somewhere deep in his throat, then whipped his head up to stare at Vincent out of red rimmed eyes. ”You know that’s not true. You’re doing fine, Vincent.”

“Am I? Because I don’t feel fine. I haven’t felt fine in a long time. I’m drifting and slipping and failing at everything I do—including this.” He gestured between the two of them.

Another deep shuddering breath from Christian, his eyes falling closed. He was once more curled tightly into himself, his shoulders narrow, his whole body held tense and rigid.

Silence threatened to fill up the space and crush them beneath its weight and Vincent couldn't stand it any longer.

“ _Godverdomme_ , Chris. Say something.”

This, at least, got Christian to look at Vincent. “What am I supposed to say? I mean… I can’t argue that things are difficult for you right now. It’s hard. Sometimes football is like that.” He gave another shrug. “Sometimes life is like that. It is what it is. You’ll land on your feet somewhere.”

“Just not here,” Vincent said.

“No. Not here.”

“And you don’t care?”

“I didn’t say that,” Christian said.

He dragged a hand through his hair and squeezed his eyes shut for a few moments, then took another deep breath and flicked his eyes back open to fix on Vincent, his voice firm, although Vincent could hear the waver at the back of his words. “I just… what is there to say about it? You will be leaving again and there is nothing either of us can do.”

“We could have tried to enjoy the time we have together,” Vincent said.

“You’re the one making plans to leave.”

“Because _you_ don’t want me to be here,” Vincent yelled, his voice too loud and too angry and his body too hot and everything too much.

“That’s not true!” Christian yelled back.

Vincent bit down hard on his tongue, trying to prevent the little snarl of sound that was a sob from loosening in the back of his throat.

"What do you want from me, Chris? Honestly? Tell me what you want and I'll do it, I just… I don't know what to do. I've spent days now trying to make you happy and nothing I've tried has done that and I don't know what else there is so please just tell me and I will do it because right now I just do not know."

Christian’s eyes went wide at this, and he took a step backward, staggering a bit, as though Vincent’s words had hit him with physical force.

He dropped his head to his hands, then, burying his face in his palms and scrubbing at his eyes as though he were trying to scratch the tears away.

“I… don’t know what I want. Honestly, Vincent, do you know how hard this is for me? To spend all my time wondering what happens now? What we do? Will Vincent be okay? You say you don’t want to hold me back, but…”

“But what, Chris?”

Silence stretched between them, Vincent’s whole body shaking with the tears he would not let fall. Christian standing almost impossibly still, head bent. His hands were balled into fists at his side, knuckles white as he squeezed them tighter.

When he looked up at last, his eyes shimmered with a sheen of unshed tears in the harsh white light of the room.

His voice, when he spoke, was ragged, and raw.

“It’s difficult. Because… I’m trying to focus on my career. On what’s best for me. And… I can’t… I can’t focus on any of that if I have to spend all my time worrying about you.”

The words hit Vincent like a slap to the face, knocking the breath out of him. He gasped for air, his body shuddering. He let out a choked noise, something in-between a scream and a sob that collapsed into a sound he would not make.

He concentrated on his breath, doing his best to ignore the blood pounding against his temples, a headache threatening. He forced himself to close his eyes and relax his jaw and just breathe.

Deep breath in, hold it, and let it out slowly.

Once more.

Then again.

Breathing under control, heartbeat slowed to a dull thud instead of a roaring in his ears, he turned back towards Christian.

It was fitting, really. They should have come to this point long ago, walking away before there was anything between them. Maybe, if he’d done this a year ago it wouldn’t feel like someone was scraping his insides out with a spoon right now.

“Fine, Christian. If that’s what you want, then fine. I will make arrangements to have the rest of my things sent on to me. For now… you don’t have to worry about me anymore. Focus on you and your career and forget about the rest. I can take care of myself.”

His voice came out unnaturally calm, the words measured and even despite the rolling, roiling, sick feeling in his stomach and the hot tears stinging at the corners of his eyes.

Their eyes locked together for a brief moment before Christian turned his head and looked away.

And, that was that, then.

Vincent spun back around and gathered his bags, then flung open the door, shoved all the belongings he owned in the world into the boot of his hired car, and pulled out of Christian’s long driveway and out onto the road leading him up Highgate Hill and onward to Northeast London.


	20. Chapter 20

Vincent had no idea where he was going. All he knew was that he’d thrown all his bags into the back of his car and driven away from Christian’s house as quickly as he could without risking a traffic stop for excessive speed.

Music turned up until the windows shook with it, the lyrics angry and loud, the beat driving and pulsing and fast as he tried to drown out all the thoughts swishing and swirling in his head.

He had done the best thing for both of them. He had to believe that. He would be leaving—hopefully for good this time—and eventually, so would Christian. Their relationship had lasted far longer than Vincent had ever hoped, but it was time for them to move on, both mentally and physically. Christian had made it more than clear that he had a life without Vincent, and from the looks of things he preferred it that way.

Vincent had given him that life back.

It wasn’t until he found himself driving a familiar winding route through the village and past the park that he realised where he was heading.

The gates were shut and the complex standing dark when Vincent arrived, but he nestled his car up into the few metres of space before the gates and turned off the engine, plunging the car into silence as both the music and the air conditioning abruptly cut out.

The navy cockerel of Tottenham Hotspur greeted him as he stared out the windows at the perfectly landscaped entry and beyond, the stretch of what he knew were a dozen perfectly manicured football pitches surrounding the most beautiful training centre he’d probably ever have the pleasure of calling his workplace.

Had it really been nearly two years since the first time he’d made this turn and crossed through these gates? In so many ways it felt like only last week, but in so many more it felt like a different lifetime.

He’d rocked up to Spurs with such hope and expectation. He’d fought his way back from what had felt like an absolute failure a few years before—told there would be no place for him in a Feyenoord first team that his friends had all moved into with ease over the months and years prior. He’d thought about quitting, but had pushed through, accepting what had felt like a demotion into the lower levels of Dutch football, a step down even from an under-19 team.

The move had been good for him, in the end. It had let him regroup and find his feet and find his game. It had taken him a few months to settle in and learn to take things seriously, but once he had, he had given all for his team and it had eventually paid off with a move back to the Eredivisie. Not just the Eredivisie, but a taste of European football, a fourth place finish in the league—frustratingly, for Vincent, just behind his former club, Feyenoord. On a personal level, Vincent had been awarded the honour of Eredivisie top scorer along with a few other accolades.

Above all of that, though, it had earned him a move to Tottenham Hotspur.

At the time, that had felt like a dream come true.

Still, he’d almost turned down the offer. He’d watched enough Premier League matches to know that the league was breakneck and frantic at times, and Vincent had never been the fleetest of foot, even in his younger days, instead preferring to use his height and size advantage to block out the defenders and create a space for himself or a teammate to slide into.

But there was the voice whispering in the back of his head: “Christian is at Spurs.”

And, really, that was another reason to turn down the move. He’d have enough going on in his life, he didn’t need some stupid boyhood crush on someone he’d never formally met getting in the way of things.

But Pochettino had convinced him, and Vincent was an adult who could keep his personal life and professional life separate. He’d spoken with his family, all of whom told him to follow his instincts, made the call, and flown to London within the week.

In many ways, his feelings for Christian had been his undoing from the start, Vincent knew. He’d never been able to fully show up at training, always flustered and frazzled in Christian’s presence. Worst of all were the days they’d been drawn on a team together and he had to somehow focus on doing his job while his entire body did its level best to betray him. Blood that was supposed to be pumping to his legs and his brain instead shot straight into his groin whenever he caught a glimpse of Christian twisting and turning through a line of defenders before sending a bullet of a pass straight through to where Vincent should have been making a run.

He’d never intended for anything to happen between Christian and himself. When it did happen, he’d never expected it to last half this long—not with the way the footballing world worked. He’d certainly never dreamed that they’d both carve out the space to maintain their relationship across thousands of kilometres.

But nothing at Spurs had gone the way Vincent had hoped. As he sat here now, staring at what two years ago had held so much potential, he couldn’t help but run once more over the mental laundry list of “should haves” that he’d built up during his time with the club.

You should have worked harder, should have been less distracted, should have focused more on football. You should have kept a professional distance between yourself and Christian. You shouldn’t have let yourself believe that he might actually feel something for you. You shouldn’t have leaned into it and encouraged him. You definitely shouldn’t have pushed him for an answer—coaxing him into your bed and asking him what it was he wanted from you.

You should have taken the loan to Newcastle or Brighton and reset things instead of letting this stupid relationship you shouldn’t have gotten in in the first place drive your decisions and land you halfway across the world. Maybe your relationship would have survived the distance—you could have popped back down on weekends off or the occasional evening when you had no training the next day and continued at least seeing one another instead of month on end apart, with only the occasional phone call to catch up.

But ahead of all that, you should have followed your instincts and never come here in the first place.

He should have moved to Germany and forgotten all about Christian Eriksen.

Sure, he would have missed out on so many things—new friendships and what had been by far the most serious relationship of his adult life, but he also wouldn’t be sitting here right now with both his career and relationship on the brink of collapse.

Their life was at a tipping point, and although it wasn’t the easy choice, Vincent knew that this time he’d needed to choose with his head instead of his heart.

All Vincent had wanted was a few weeks spent wrapped up in Christian's warmth and light and life before he ran back off to Istanbul, voluntarily this time, and the life he'd built for himself there. He wanted to come and go as he pleased, he and Christian always ready to crash back into one another and then just as quickly go their separate ways. They'd find their stolen moments together and carve out the space for one another and slot back together whenever they could.

Except… things had shifted too much—they'd carved away too much and worn away the edges and the separate pieces of their lives no longer slotted together properly.

Maybe Toby had been right. Maybe everyone had been right. Maybe it was only a matter of time before it all fell apart.

Christian had his own life, and even when Vincent had lived here in London that life hadn’t always included Vincent. Did he really expect to just slide into Christian’s space and have Christian embrace him like he had nothing else in the world to be getting on with?

A year ago this time they had just returned from a summer spent laying alongside one another in the beds of secluded beach resorts, pressed close together in dark corners of Ibiza dance clubs, and wandering beside one another through the cities of Denmark and The Netherlands after they’d introduced one another to their families. Even then, they’d returned to London and immediately returned to their separate lives and spaces—Vincent back to his flat a few kilometres from here and Christian to his enormous house in Highgate.

Now, after a year spent halfway across the world from one another, Christian didn’t want Vincent around at all.

Christian still too polite to rescind his offer of giving Vincent a space in his home. The two of them still too tightly entwined for either of them to disentangle from the other while they were in such proximity.

Both of them, Vincent believed, still too in love to actually do what needed to be done.

This time, Vincent had finally made the correct choice.

Without a doubt, he would be leaving the club within the month. More than likely, Christian would be making his own exit soon enough—both of them going separate but opposite ways, Vincent to a league almost no one paid attention to in the hopes that he could do what he’d done five years ago and fight his way back up into relevance and Christian on to one of the best clubs in the world where he could finally lift all the trophies he’d been deserving of for years now.

Making the clean break and walking away hurt more than Vincent had thought he could stand, but he had to believe that this way would be better in the end? If they couldn’t survive being in the same space for even a few days, then what was the point of pretending they were even in a relationship?

As long as Vincent tried to impose his life on Christian’s they were destined for failure.

It was best that Vincent pack his bags, find a hotel or an apartment somewhere on the opposite side of the city and avoid all the places he might accidentally bump into Christian. It would be awful—especially given that most places in London made him think of Christian. And then, in a few weeks, if Vincent was still here, they’d be in training together everyday, Vincent showing up for work and trying to pretend that even being near Christian didn’t make him feel like someone had pressed a knife into his chest and was twisting it around and around and around.

The actual best option would be the two of them living in separate cities.

But, as much as he wished he could jump on a plane to Istanbul, settle into his space alongside Roman and Martin, and try to forget he’d ever had a life in London, it wasn’t an option. He was still a Spurs player and he was still expected to turn up for training on Monday. All this would result in, probably, was him constantly looking over his shoulder expecting Christian to walk around the corner at any moment, Vincent’s nerves already shot from the pressures of worrying about transfer season and his professional future would be beyond raw as he stayed on high alert, expecting to run into Christian at any time.

He had no idea where to go from here, but it didn’t much matter. He’d find the nearest hotel, bunk down for the night, and figure out the rest in the morning.

* * *

Vincent leaned over and jabbed at the centre display of the dashboard. He’d hired this car, assuming he wouldn’t be needing it for more than a few week’s time at most, and hadn’t yet had cause to get used to all the features. Eventually, he managed to find the button that called up the GPS system, then poked at it, trying to find some idea of where he’d ended up. The display spun around, the lines and boxes of streets whirring dizzyingly past on the screen until it settled on his current location. 

The robotic voice on the GPS called out its directions, and Vincent obeyed, turning right at the next intersection. When the instruction came time to turn back south, however, Vincent yanked the wheel left to turn north and away from his problems. He had no idea where he was going, he just knew he wasn’t quite ready to face his future just yet. 

His flat, when he’d lived here, hadn’t been far from where he was now, and he’d walked, run, and driven these streets many times over what he had come to think of as his “London year,” often venturing out and wandering aimlessly through the neighbourhood whenever he needed a little space to think. 

Eventually, he found himself on a road that was a bit more familiar than most. 

This one led to the pub, or Vincent’s former “local” as the English would say. It wasn’t a pub in the traditional sense of the word, but this was London, and pubs here came in all shapes, sizes, and odd themes. 

Back when he’d lived here, his apartment had been in close enough proximity that he had taken a liking to the place and begun to treat it as his own personal refuge from the world—often ordering a gin and tonic and the occasional cheeky plate of chips and retreating to the comfort of their covered terrace whenever life in London got too hectic or life at Spurs got too overwhelming, which had been increasingly more often during the middle days of his tenure at the club. 

It was a Saturday night, and although this particular establishment was tucked away off the main roads and tended not to get as crowded as most London bars, the main room was still crowded, the air filled with the smell of fryer oil and the buzz of conversations. 

Vincent weaved his way through the crowds, thankful, for once, that he wasn’t nearly the recognisable figure that most of his teammates were, and managed to find himself a table in the far corner of the terrace, He ordered his usual—this particular pub offered a gin list that covered nearly a full A4 sheet of paper, but Vincent had been raised in The Netherlands and he knew his preferences. This time around, he eschewed the chips for a salad of chargrilled asparagus, boiled eggs, and sliced chicken breast in some attempt to convince himself he was thinking about sticking to his diet plan, sat back, and tried to lose himself in the chaos of London nightlife—or as close as one could get to London nightlife this far out of the city centre. 

Honestly, it was how he preferred things. 

He finished his meal, downed his drink, then ordered another. It may not have been his best plan, but he needed something to dull the sharp edges of all the thoughts and feelings scraping around inside of him. He’d savor this one, then get in his car, drive to the nearest hotel, and attempt to get some sleep. 

Not likely, he thought. He’d be lucky if he ever managed to sleep again, with the way his mind started screaming at him the minute he let it. 

Did you do the right thing? Could you have worked it all out if you’d tried harder? Where had it all gone wrong in the first place? Had Toby been right all along, and this was the way things were always going to end between them? 

And just like that, his second drink was done and he was on to a third. 

A truly bad idea, really, considering he was no longer a quick ten minute taxi ride back to his flat. 

This one he did take his time with, letting the sharp bitter flavour of the gin roll around on his tongue and wishing it had more of the comforting, malty flavour of the genever he’d grown a bit too accustomed to drinking back home the last time his life had been falling apart around him. He was in no particular hurry to leave the din of the pub and rush back to his thoughts. He may as well stay here as long as possible, delaying the inevitable, putting off the real world for as long as he could. 

Drink finished, he paid his tab, thanked the waitstaff, stood up, and nearly tumbled back down again as his head whirled and spun. He leaned one hand on the table to steady himself then sucked in a breath. Probably, he should sit back down and ask for the largest glass of water the kitchen could round up, but the tables around him were filling fast, and he knew if he relocated to the bar he’d end up in an even worse situation. 

Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head a bit to clear it, then made his way outside to where he’d left his vehicle. 

It took him what felt like hours but was probably only five minutes to figure out how to use the button on his car fob to unlock the driver’s side door. He wished he’d thought to stash a bottle of water in the cupholder, but he’d rushed out of Christian’s house too quickly to have planned for any sort of contingencies, so he’d have to hope he could get his head together right quick and manage to navigate to and then book himself into lodgings without incident. 

Honestly, a ticket for drink driving would be just the thing he needed to cap off the shitstorm that had been his day. 

He jabbed once more at the buttons on the GPS unit, the fog in his brain making him stupid and slow. His vision was blurred slightly at the edges, and he had to lean in close, directing every bit of concentration he could dig up on trying to press the right space on the screen. After a few mis-clicks, the screen spinning and whirling to the point that he had to look away to keep from getting dizzy with the movement, he finally landed on the list of recent locations. The name of the hotel he’d meant to visit until he got sidetracked at the pub flashed across the screen, the display informing him that his trip of 5 kilometres would take him ten minutes at this time of night. 

Below that, another address, the distance slightly less, the accommodations probably more welcoming, although given the time of night, Vincent couldn’t be sure. 

Still. Even sleeping alone in a friend’s guestroom had to be better than lying in a strange hotel bed wondering if you’d ever again have any place to call your own. 

He jabbed the button on the GPS, turned up his music to near deafening levels, and pulled out onto the street and through the roundabout. 


	21. Chapter 21

The house was dark, not a single light showing from any window as Vincent turned his car into the wide driveway. 

He glanced down at the clock on the centre display screen—just after midnight. Probably, Ben was in bed by now. It was where Vincent should be; where he wished he was, Christian’s body cradled against his own, soft snores in his ears as they drifted off to sleep at each other’s side. 

Vincent sat back in his seat let out a deep breath. He should punch in the address of the hotel that was still saved in his recent destinations in the car’s GPS system, head back the way he came, and stop bothering the whole world with his problems. 

Instead, he turned off the engine, grabbed his phone and billfold from where he’d dumped them in the centre console, and climbed out of the car. 

The night was still and silent, punctuated only by the occasional chirp of bird or insect and the infrequent whir of tires on the street in the distance, the whole neighbourhood tucked up tight in their homes with their families, sleeping soundly. 

He moved slowly, afraid to make a sound and disturb the quiet that had fallen around him. When he reached Ben’s front stoop, he stopped for a minute, finger hovering over the bell, unsure of whether he should press it or rush back to his car again and forget he’d ever been here. 

But his head was still fuzzy, his body humming and his vision swimming with the alcohol buzzing through his system. He needed a litre of water and a good night’s sleep—or at least a lie down—and he probably shouldn’t try to drive anywhere further tonight. He’d made it here without issue, but it would be better if he didn’t risk another trip. 

He pressed the bell, chimes ringing out loud enough to make Vincent wince with the noise. He stood still, listening closely, his ear all but pressed up against the door as he strained to hear any hint of movement inside the house, but all was quiet. 

Maybe Ben wasn’t at home. He might have gone out—enjoying his last night before training or spending the evening with a friend or a girlfriend. Vincent didn’t know Ben’s life. 

Just as he was about to give up and head back to his vehicle—he could tip the seat back and sleep in Ben’s driveway, he supposed—a light flashed on and the door creaked open. 

“Vincent?” 

Ben’s voice was creaky from sleep, his hair in vague disarray and his eyes squinted shut as he peered around the corner of the door at Vincent. 

“Hi,” Vincent said, keeping his voice quiet, his head slightly bent. “Sorry to disturb you, but…” 

He looked up then, meeting Ben’s eyes. “I didn’t know where else to go.” 

Ben blinked at him a few times, held up his index finger, indicating that Vincent should wait a second, then closed the door, leaving Vincent standing there staring at the painted wood, it’s red colour now dulled in the dim light from the street. 

A few moments later, the door swung open again to reveal Ben, still mussed from sleep, now wrapped up in a bathrobe that looked far too warm for the current weather. 

“You might as well come in,” he said. “No sense you standing here on my front step like a lemon at God’s-o’clock in the morning.” 

He stepped back, gesturing past him into the house. 

Vincent obliged, stopping only briefly in the doorway to toe off his shoes. He nearly toppled to the ground, his balance still shaky and unsteady, but caught himself with a hand braced against the wall then crouched down to tug at the laces. 

Ben skirted around him and headed down the hallway towards the kitchen. Vincent, having somehow managed to rid himself of his shoes without toppling over backwards, stood up slowly, walking his hands up the wall as he leaned against it, his head still spinning a bit with the movement. He followed Ben into the kitchen, accepting the cold bottle of water Ben held out to him on his way past with a simple “thanks.” 

Together, they made their way into the living room, Vincent twisting off the cap and taking a huge gulp of the water, the chill of it shocking him a little more into alertness. Ben dropped down onto the sofa and Vincent followed. 

The two sat in silence for long moments, the only noises the steady tick of the wall clock and the intermittent hum of the refrigerator in the next room. Vincent closed his eyes, sipping from his water and letting the cool liquid wash through him in waves. His whole body felt heavy, his head spinning, the headache that had been threatening for hours now arriving in full force. 

It was Ben who spoke first. 

“Not being funny, Mate… you look like absolute shit.” 

“Probably,” Vincent replied. “That is about how I feel.” 

Ben let out a breath of laughter through his nose. “Right. Please tell me you didn’t drive here like that.” 

Vincent flicked his eyes open and dropped his head to the side to look at him. “It wasn’t far. I was in the neighbourhood, as it were.” 

“I’d better get the kettle on.” 

With that, Ben stood up and disappeared around the corner into the kitchen. Vincent could hear him clanging around, water running and the ring of metal hitting stovetop. 

Unsurprisingly, he carried on a stream of chatter as he worked. Vincent was glad of it, the act comforting and familiar to him, distracting him from his thoughts and giving him space to just lean back and breathe. 

“Can’t say I’m surprised to see you here,” Ben said. “Not after the way things were when you left. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I was rather hoping you’d go home and sort things out and the two of you would be happily tucked up in bed doing things to one another that I’d rather not think about, thank you very much.” 

“Yes well,” Vincent said, his voice coming out sharp and sarcastic. He drained the last drops from his bottle of water then sat up straighter on the sofa. “There is no chance of that happening ever again.” 

At this, Ben ducked back around the corner and sat back down beside Vincent. He held out a fresh bottle of water, which Vincent gladly accepted. 

“So…” Ben said. 

“So…” Vincent echoed. 

“What is going on then?” Ben asked. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me, obviously, but I thought… well… since you’re here. If you want an ear…” 

Vincent shrugged. “Where do I start? I ruin things. Christian is better without me. I should have taken a hint a long time ago and left and given him space so he could have a life but I didn’t, so I’m doing it now.” 

“Oh,” Ben said, his voice quiet. “That’s… rather a lot. It’s not… was it something I said? Earlier. That comment about Daley Blind and the coffee date. I didn’t think it was… I didn’t mean to stir things up. Honestly, it didn’t look all that serious. Christian looked like he’d rather be anywhere than there by the time we all rocked up.” 

“Hm,” Vincent said. “Well. I’m glad it’s not just me that makes him look like that.” 

“I don’t think…” Ben said, then trailed off into silence. He pursed his lips staring down at the floor. 

Vincent didn’t think he’d ever seen Ben at a loss for words before. It was odd, the two of them sitting there in awkward silence, the gulf that was their particular relationships with Christian widening between them. 

Out of nowhere, the teakettle let out a high pitched squeal, making both of them jump, Vincent actually giving a yell of surprise at the harsh noise in the quiet of the room. Ben bounced to his feet and dashed away to the kitchen, looking relieved to have an excuse to be anywhere but in the living room with Vincent. 

The sound stopped, the scream winding down to a quiet whistle as Ben shifted the kettle from the heat. Vincent could hear him fussing around in the kitchen some more, cupboard doors opening and banging closed then the clank of pottery against one another. 

He reappeared a few minutes later, steaming hot mug in each hand. He held one out towards Vincent, who reached up and took it, wincing as the heat of it burned against his fingertips. 

Hot tea was the last thing he wanted, right now, but he’d long since learned to accept that this was the way the British dealt with most things. He didn’t have to drink it, but the act of making it seemed to help them work through the particulars of whatever situation they found themselves in. He lifted a drink mat from the stack on Ben’s side table and set his mug down on top of it. 

Ben sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. “When you left…” 

Vincent shook his head, then pressed hard into the sofa and hauled himself to his feet, his head spinning and the room tilting a bit with the swift movement, but he pushed through it, managing to stay on his feet. 

He had gotten this lecture more than enough times from Toby. He didn’t need another one of Christian’s friends telling him all the ways he’d ruined Christian’s life. He knew. 

“No. If that is how things are going to be then I think I will find myself a hotel. Thank you for your hospitality. I will be alright to drive.” 

A too warm hand on his wrist stopped him short. He turned to find Ben looking up at him, his jaw set firm. 

“Sit down,” Ben said, his tone firm. “If you think I’m letting you drive anywhere right now you’ve entirely lost your senses.” 

“I will be fine.” Vincent said. “I don’t need another person to tell me all the things I’ve done wrong. I know them all. I think about them every day. I have no one to blame for any of this but myself. I never wanted to leave, but I did, and I shouldn’t have dragged Christian along with me. I will be leaving again, so this time I did what I should have done first.” 

“Not being funny,” Ben said, which Vincent had learned meant he was probably about to say something Vincent wouldn’t like. “But why are you here?” 

“Where?” Vincent asked. “In London? I am here because I have to be. Trust me, no one in the world wishes more than I do that I could fly back to Istanbul and forget I was ever here. Except maybe Christian.” 

“I meant, why are you here sat on my sofa in the middle of the night looking absolutely knackered if you didn’t want to hear what I had to say?” 

Vincent shook his head and yanked back on his arm, trying to pull it from Ben’s grasp. 

Ben barreled on in the conversation as though Vincent weren’t trying to run out of there as quickly as he possibly could, his grip on Vincent’s arm not loosening. 

“What it is is,” Ben said, dropping into a Welsh-ism that Christian insisted meant he was trying to clarify something, despite the utter lack of clarity in the phrase itself. “To say that Christian took it hard when you left doesn’t even come close. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion. He held it together, just, but... I dunno, all any of us could do was be there when he needed and hope he somehow managed to right himself. But I mean… you know all that.” 

He did know it. Or, rather, he’d pieced it together out of second-hand information he’d received from Christian’s various teammates and friends over the past year. Usually Toby. Usually shouted at him to make it clear that this was all Vincent’s fault. 

And maybe it was. But he couldn’t undo the past. All he could do was change the future, so that’s what he’d done. 

“No. I don’t know because I wasn’t there,” Vincent said, his voice coming out too loud and too harsh thanks to the stress of his day and the alcohol still spinning through him. “That is the problem, isn’t it. And it is why I’m here now. So no one has to go through that again. Christian has his life and his career and he doesn’t need me being a distraction or something else he has to work through. He made that clear.” 

“Mm,” was all Ben said in response, although he did finally release his grip on Vincent’s arm. Vincent took another step towards the door, but his legs threatened to give out beneath him with the movement, his head still throbbing and vaguely hazy. He let out a frustrated groan, then turned back and flopped down onto the sofa, the faux-leather fabric hot and sticky where he’d been sitting a few moments ago. 

They stayed there for long moments, Ben sipping quietly at his tea, Vincent rubbing at his eyes with his fingers, trying to convince himself that he believed any of this. 

Wouldn’t it have been better to ride things out in London, taking whatever Christian was willing to give, and then fly away wherever life took him and let the two of them gradually drift apart? 

He didn’t know the answer. All he knew was that every inch of him was red and raw and aching and all he wanted was someone or something to make the pain stop. He groaned and dropped his face into his palms, doing his level best to hold in the sob that was threatening to escape. 

“I never meant for it to turn out this way. I didn’t think it would become this serious. I never wanted…” 

He trailed off, unable to bring himself to say the next words. To say that he hadn’t wanted this when it was all he’d wanted for so many years. Sure, it hadn’t worked out the way he’d planned, and he’d made everyone’s lives significantly worse because of it, but he was starting to believe that was just his lot in life. 

“I never meant any of this. But… it’s my life. I ruin everything I touch. I should never have come here and I should never have let myself get involved with Christian and I should have stayed in the Netherlands where I belonged. I knew I would eventually leave and I dragged Christian along with me anyway instead of just keeping to myself so the only life I destroyed was my own. Then he wouldn’t have had to go through all of it. So for me to ask it of him… it was stupid and selfish and unfair and I did it anyway.” 

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Ben said, his voice sharp. “Christian’s not the type to get sentimental and hang on to something just because. If he doesn’t think something is worth his time he cuts his losses and moves on. If he didn’t want to stay with you, he would have said it.” 

“He’s saying it now,” Vincent said. “Christian has made it perfectly clear that he doesn’t want me around. He has his life and his career to be going on with and all I am is a distraction. And so…Here I am. I will go as far away from him as I can and on Monday I will go to the team and request a transfer and they can send me away from here so he never has to worry about me again. I am only giving Christian what he asked for.” 

Ben shook his head at this, then rubbed at his eyes, blinking a few times then muttering something under his breath in what Vincent presumed was Welsh. 

He leaned back into the sofa, his face set in a contemplative look, lips pursed, eyes narrowed as he stared out across the open, white space of his living room. Vincent joined him in settling back, sipping at his bottle of water until he’d drained the last drops of that one as well, then setting it down to join it’s twin bottle and the still untouched mug of tea on Ben’s glass-topped table. 

All of a sudden, Ben snapped his fingers, and stood up, crossing in front of Vincent to examine a row of photographs lined up on a high shelf along the wall. He scanned back and forth, index finger dragging right and left until he stopped, grabbed one, and held it over towards Vincent. 

“I don’t know if you know,” he said. “But Christian isn’t exactly one to talk about his feelings.” 

On another day, Vincent would have laughed at this, but not today. Now, the wounds were still too raw, his whole body bruised and battered for him to do anything besides let out a sort of strangled sob of a noise. 

“Look at this.” Ben shoved the photo closer. “This is a photo of Christian and me during Pochettino’s first mid-winter training camp in Barcelona.” 

Vincent took the photo, brushed metal edges of the frame smooth and cool in his hands. It showed Christian and Ben, seated together behind a table in a restaurant. They had their heads tipped together and arms slung around shoulders. 

Christian’s face was set in a wide grin, blue eyes squinted slightly in laughter at something—probably whatever Ben had just said. It was a genuine smile, not one of those forced, strained things he tended to put on for the media. This one instead conveyed his joy in the moment—Christian surrounded by good food and good friends in a place he loved. 

“Okay…” Vincent said, looking up at Ben through narrowed eyes as he dragged out the last syllable of the word. 

“Now… take out your phone.” Ben said. 

Vincent narrowed his eyes, trying to keep up with Ben’s logic, but he slid his phone out of his pocket and unlocked it. 

“There’s a photo. I know you have it because Christian does. It’s printed out and set out on the shelf in his living room for fuck’s sake.” Ben shook his head. “He thinks he’s so subtle about this relationship, but… nevermind. You know the one. The two of you together. When we all went out at the start of last season before you…” 

He stopped short, smacking his lips together once as he looked down at Vincent. 

“Before international break. When we all thought you wouldn’t be back. We went out for the team dinner and you and Christian had your eyes on nothing but each other, both of you looking like you might explode. Honestly we were all about to place bets on how long it would take before you both excused yourselves to go to the toilet at the same time—” 

Vincent held up one hand. “Stop. I know which one you mean.” 

He had saved it to a special folder on his phone; had printed it out and framed it to sit beside his bed in his lonely, cramped Istanbul flat so he could look at it every night before he went to sleep—a cautionary tale of the mistake he’d made by not saying yes to one of the loan offers that would have kept him in England. He’d gotten arrogant and greedy, and while he’d enjoyed his time in Istanbul and truly hoped to return there in a few weeks’ time, he’d wanted to remember that moment. To learn from it. 

He called it up and held the phone out to Ben. 

“No,” Ben said, waving the phone away. “Look at it. Same setting—or at least, the same idea—but… I mean, look at him, Vincent, he’s positively glowing. I’ve known Christian for a bit now, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look at someone the way he’s looking at you there. Ever.” 

Ben punctuated the last word with an emphatic strike of one hand against the opposite palm that made Vincent jerk his head up, dragging his gaze away from the photo to meet Ben’s eyes. 

“I had never seen Christian’s attention anywhere than on football. Married to the job and all that. Not that he isn’t now, but…” 

“Nothing can compete with that,” Vincent said. “And it shouldn’t. I never wanted to.” 

He turned off his phone and tossed the photo aside, the frame clanking as they bounced together against the firm fabric of the sofa. 

More silence stretched between them, Ben’s index finger tapping against the arm of the sofa as he stared out across the room. He yawned, then gathered up Vincent’s still full mug of tea—now undoubtedly cold—and his empty one then disappeared into the kitchen where Vincent could hear the mugs clinking together in the sink. 

Ben reappeared, leaning against the corner of the wall separating the kitchen from the living room. “Right. It’s late, and I’m tired and you look like you need to sleep some things off. We’re clearly not getting anywhere. Sleep on this, and let’s see how things look in the morning. You can stay in the guest bedroom. I have some clothes you can borrow if you need…” 

Vincent shook his head. “If you don’t mind… I think I’ll be more comfortable here. I’m used to sleeping on the sofa when I’m…” he gave a vague gesture, unsure of what word could possibly sum up this situation and all the emotions that came along with it. 

“Anyway,” he said. “Your house has a lot of stairs and that seems… really difficult right now.” 

Ben shrugged. “The bed’s much nicer, but suit yourself. I’ll bring you down some bedding and a change of clothes.” 


	22. Chapter 22

**Sunday, 8 July, 2018**

The morning greeted Vincent with a blinding ray of sun piercing straight past his eyelids through his aching skull and straight into his brain.

He rolled over, his skin sticking and dragging painfully against the fabric of… whatever he was lying on.

A sofa. He buried his face into the back of it, trying to ward off the offending rays of sunlight. But not his sofa. This one all slick faux leather where his was soft fabric.

The memories of the previous evening flooding back to him, although he’d rather hoped it had all been a dream and he’d wake up in Christian’s oversized bed with Christian sprawled out into the space beside him and everything would be right in the world.

Instead… Ben’s house, where Vincent had landed when he didn’t know where else to go, sleeping alone on Ben’s downstairs sofa because the stairs had seemed too insurmountable an obstacle in his exhausted, wrung-out, and half-drunken state. Vincent’s head pounding and his life in complete and utter disarray.

A man without a club or a home—literally this time—crashing on the sofa of an ex-teammate who had the unfortunate luck of being the closest person you could turn to.

Vincent squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself to fall back into sleep. Maybe the next time he woke up things would be different. Maybe the next time he woke up he and Christian would still be together.

He couldn’t stay there all day, he knew. Ben had his own life and probably things to do that involved him actually using his living room. Maybe, in a few hours with a bit more sleep, Vincent could manage to drag himself out into the world, find a hotel room, and shut himself in until he was mandated to show up for training the next day.

Or maybe, he could stay in the hotel forever, until the team got so tired of him not being arsed to turn up that they just took the first offer for him that came their way and he could leave London forever and never come back.

From upstairs, he could hear a voice drifting faintly down, growing gradually louder as it formed itself into snatches of conversation

“...honestly don’t care…”

Ben’s voice, followed by a moment of silence and then footsteps on the stairs.

“I don’t know why. I assumed you would know why.”

Nothing in response, just the sound of shuffling and rustling as Ben presumably made his way into the kitchen.

“Um. I dunno, mate, maybe because he said so. And anyway, he’s supposed to be staying at your house, not bunking down on my sofa.”

And oh… this was about him. Ben on the phone, presumably with Christian. Vincent shifted around, mentally preparing himself to roll back over, gather himself together, thank Ben for his hospitality, and sort out at least some of the mess he’d made of his life.

The last thing he needed was to ruin the few friendships, such as they were, that he _did_ have here by making an imposition of himself.

“For fuck’s sake, Christian. Really? That’s how you’re going to be?”

Ben’s voice hushed, barely above a whisper, although he was still managing to convey his irritation and exasperation at whatever Christian was saying in his defense.

From the kitchen came the sound of water running and cupboards being opened and shut, everything slow and cautious and quiet, Ben clearly trying to avoid waking him. Vincent appreciated him for that.

“Your boyfriend rocks up to my house in the middle of the night half drunk and—”

“Fine… partner… whatever. I don’t care what you’re calling this thing. Point is—”

“What do you mean, since when? Since… mate, that is _not_ what’s important here, yeah?”

A clank of crockery against the counter rang out loudly into the quiet of the house, making Vincent flinch on instinct.

“Christian. Stop.” Ben’s voice louder now, his tone firm. “I tell you that Vincent turned up on my doorstep looking absolutely destroyed and you key in on _that_? Mate… leave off. Yeah, I know about you and Vincent. Pretty much everyone knows about it.”

Another long pause, Christian presumably trying to come to his defense. Their secret was out, and Christian knew it was out, and he was probably on the verge of a panic attack at the news. Ordinarily Vincent would care, but today he just couldn’t be bothered. Besides, it wasn’t as though there was any sort of relationship for anyone to know about. Not anymore.

“Christian, no one cares about it. It’s a thing. Like any of the rest of us in a relationship. You’re fine. Calm. Down.” Ben’s voice back to its standard volume, conveying with it all his annoyance at the current situation. “Can we focus on the real issue here, which is Vincent here after midnight dizzy and half out of his mind spouting all sorts of nonsense about how he needed to leave so you can move forward with your life.”

“I’m sure you didn’t but… look don’t tell it to me, tell it to him. He’s still here sleeping it off. I have a feeling he’ll be absolutely hanging when he wakes up.”

“No,” Ben said, his voice quieter again. “I mean, he’s a mate so I’ll deal with it, but… this is on you, really.”

“Because, mate, I can’t fix it for you. Only you can do that.”

Vincent nearly laughed at that. Ben wasn’t wrong, really, but the idea that Christian might somehow actually want to _fix_ anything between them seemed highly unlikely. He was pretty sure Christian wouldn’t even care where Vincent had ended up after he walked out of the house the previous evening. He certainly hadn’t made any effort to stop Vincent leaving.

“Look,” Ben said. “Just… come over here and sort it. I’m not going to play middleman or messenger boy or agony aunt or any of that. If you want it sorted, then come sort it yourself.”

And that was Vincent’s cue to leave. Christian had said everything he needed to say last night. Their relationship had run its course and there was no sense the two of them dragging out what would almost certainly be an inevitable breakup any longer than they had to. Yes, it hurt, the wounds raw and bleeding, but it was better this way.

What other outcome could there ever be for the two of them—destined to never be in the same place for more than a few weeks, both of them needing to let go of this foolish attachment and focus on what was important, their careers as footballers.

“Christian,” Ben’s voice now holding the firm tone of an adult talking to a willful child. “Come over here and fix this. Right now. I don’t care how. I don’t care the outcome. Just come clean up your own mess.”

Vincent rolled over, once again wincing at the pull of faux-leather on sweat-dampened skin, then climbed to his feet.

His head swam, the aching in his temples multiplying a hundredfold once he was upright, but he braced himself against the back of the sofa until the dizzy spell passed, then began collecting his phone, wallet, and keys from where he’d set them on Ben’s coffee table.

Belongings sorted, he made a half-hearted attempt at folding up the light blanket Ben had brought down for him to use, then ducked around the corner into the kitchen.

Ben leaned against the counter, phone in hand, his lips pursed in frustration, his eyes glaring daggers at the wall opposite him. Vincent waved a hand to get his attention, and Ben turned to face him.

“What?” Ben asked. Then into the phone, “No. Not you. Hold on.”

He dropped the phone from his ear and turned back to Vincent. “What do you need? Water I imagine? Anything else? A handful of paracetamol, probably. Upstairs loo, in the cupboard. Help yourself.”

He went back to the phone once again. “So…?”

Vincent waved at him again. “No. It’s not… I mean, yes, I would like some water and an aspirin, but… No. I just wanted to say thank you for everything. I’ll be out of your way soon.”

“What?” Ben asked again, shaking his head and squinting over at Vincent. “No. Hold on. Christian, just get yourself here now in a minute. You,” he pointed at Vincent, “Go sit back down. You’re not going anywhere. Honestly, I will lock you in the loo if I have to to keep you here.”

“I don’t…” Vincent started, but the look Ben flashed him was sharp enough to cut, so he stopped.

“Vincent. Sit. Down. Christian. Get here. I honestly don’t care what the end result is, as long as I don’t have to play marriage counselor anymore, but you two are going to sit down like adults and sort this shit out. Okay? Okay.”

His tone brooked no argument. Vincent had no doubt that if he tried to leave, Ben wouldn’t hesitate to take him down with a crushing slide tackle in the middle of his hallway.

“Fine,” Vincent said. “Although it won’t do any good. Now where can I find this aspirin you were speaking about?”

* * *

"Right then," Ben said, pressing steaming mugs of tea that Vincent was tolerably sure neither of them wanted—considerations about the fact that it was nine in the morning and already 25 degrees, aside—into their hands. "I'm going back upstairs for a shower and when I come back down here you two had better at least be speaking with one another. Honestly, I'm not going to force you to make up, because what do I know about any of this, but for fuck's sake I expect you to at least be on your way to a decision."

He held up one hand in a gesture that said he was done entertaining discussion around the topic, then turned around and stalked up the stairs and out of sight, leaving Christian and Vincent alone in his living room, Vincent still curled into the far corner of the sofa, Christian standing awkwardly a few metres away, shifting his weight from side to side and looking anywhere but at Vincent.

 _Picking up where he left things_ , Vincent thought. Why Ben expected things to turn out any differently today than they had yesterday, he had no idea.

Really, there was nothing keeping Vincent from just getting up and walking out the door—aside from the fact that Ben had confiscated their phones, wallets, and keys and hidden them away somewhere in the upper levels of his house, flashing them a dazzling smile and saying, “You can leave if you want, but you’ll have to walk wherever you’re going.”

Honestly, with the level of proactivity and thought he'd put into this whole thing one would think he'd spent a disproportionate amount of time in his life playing mediator to disagreeing parties.

Vincent contemplated the option anyway. He'd be standing alone in residential East Barnet with no phone to call for a ride and no money to pay for a taxi even if he could manage to flag one down. He could wander around aimlessly until he stumbled upon a hotel, but without his wallet he couldn't book a room.

He sighed. Nothing for it then, but to have things out with Christian. Again. As if they hadn't already said everything they'd needed to say to one another a few hours ago.

Christian dropped down onto the opposite end of Ben's sofa, eyes fixed on the floor, both hands wrapped around the too hot mug of tea as though it were his only lifeline to the world. He said nothing.

If Christian had nothing to say, then neither did Vincent. He'd done nothing since Christian arrived but make room and give him space and try to please him, and he was done. As long as they were still connected to one another, neither of them would be able to move on with their life. He owed it to both of them to make the right choice.

They sat in silence for a long while, the weight of two day’s worth of words both said and unsaid filling up the space between them. Both of them, Vincent felt, knowing what they needed to do. This had been beautiful, a dream Vincent had never dared to believe in, but as much as it stung, it was better to rip the bandage off and part on equal terms than to try to force something that just wasn’t working and end up with a lifetime of resentment towards one another.

Maybe… eventually, once they’d washed the salt out of the wounds and everything had healed, they could go back to being friends again. He’d certainly take that over the agony of the past week—Christian treating him worse than he would a complete stranger.

"Sometimes," Christian said after a while, his voice low and even, but Vincent knew him well enough to hear the waver behind every word. "Sometimes I'm an absolute wanker, do you know that?"

"You don't have to tell me," Vincent said, words coming out sharp and biting and honestly he didn't care. He dropped his untouched mug of tea to the table beside him and crossed his arms, staring at Christian, challenging. "I've known that for years now."

Blue eyes lifted to meet his own, and Vincent wanted nothing more than to look away. He didn't.

"Fair," Christian said, forcing what might have been a hint of a smile. "I'm just…I'm no good at processing my feelings, Vincent. I never have been. And I just…look, I was stupid, okay? To get so hung up on things like this…”

He blew out a deep breath and threw his head back, staring up at the ceiling for a few moments before continuing.

“When I think about how things could have gone in my career and the way things have gone for you over the last few years…and even before that. It's all been a bit of a nightmare, I know. Compared to that, I have no right to complain."

"Thanks for that," Vincent said, tone still ascerbic.

"I didn't mean—"

Christian lifted one hand from his mug of tea and pressed it against his face, then let out another long breath. “Fuck.”

"I know."

He did know. Ever since Vincent had met Christian, and almost certainly well before that if Jan and Toby were to be believed, he'd always been more than a little bit shit at processing feelings. Most of the time, Vincent was convinced, he wasn't even aware he was having feelings. But when they did come out, Christian tended towards realistic to the point of bluntness. It wasn’t that he meant to be hurtful, he just had an honest way of seeing the world.

Most of the time, although the words always stung, Vincent had come to appreciate Christian’s pragmatic views on things.

Still, just because you'd grown to expect something, that didn't mean you had to sit back and be okay with it for the rest of your life, did it?

"It gives me pain to say this,” Vincent said, “but I realised a long time ago that Toby's right. He's always been right. I'm not what you need. We're in different places, and I don't just mean you're here and I'm…wherever the club of the moment happens to be located. I mean, we're on different trajectories, you know? Every day you move forward and you move upward. I just…move around without ever getting anywhere. You're the hero and the superstar and you have so much potential and I'm caught in an endless loop of trying not to be a total failure."

His voice broke around the last few words, and he shifted a bit, propping his elbow up on the arm of the sofa so he could rest his forehead against his wrist, wishing he could hide himself away or sink down into the sofa until it swallowed him whole.

Christian said nothing for long moments, and Vincent knew he'd be scanning him head to toe, head tipped to the side eyes narrowed and slightly appraising as he carefully calculated what to say next.

Vincent wondered what he'd decide on—some platitude meant to convince Vincent his life wasn't going to shit and dragging Christian's down with it, or a calm, rational agreement that yeah, Vincent's life was pretty shit but the only one who could change the situation was Vincent himself.

He wasn't sure which he'd prefer. Probably neither, but knowing Christian, neither wasn't an option.

"This is why…" Vincent started, trying to take charge of the situation and do what he should have done long ago when it became clear that his time with Spurs was ending, but oh, God, he couldn't do this.

His mind spun with all the words he should have said for so long and all the choices he should have made. His chest tightened until he couldn't breathe—his ribcage caught in some kind of vice grip and he slammed his eyes shut against the pain. Tears stung the corners and every inch of him was burning hot.

Somehow, he managed to gasp in a breath, trying to pull the air deep inside himself to cool the fire building in his chest. He forced it deep, coughing and choking around it. He opened his mouth to speak once again, but all that came out was a choked sort of sobbing sound.

Another breath, and he tried again.

_Be strong, Vincent. It's better this way. You know it's better this way. For both of you, but especially for Christian. You'll be leaving again and you can't both stay tied to one another or neither of you will ever get anywhere._

"I think we must…"

The room swooped and tilted around him, even with his eyes closed tight, and he was glad he was sitting down because he couldn't quite feel his legs, like the tide had rushed in and sucked him down under and he had no idea which way was up and which way was down.

Another shuddering breath and he wasn't quite sure if he was about to pass out, be sick all over Ben's living room carpet, or do one followed by the other.

He leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees, heels of his hands pressed against his eyes as if he could somehow squeeze the hot sting of tears back inside.

In an instant, strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him in and surrounding him with warmth and the smell he'd come to think of as home. He started to pull away, fighting against the comforting familiarity of Christian's embrace, but Christian's grip on him tightened as he hugged Vincent closer against his chest.

The steady pound of Christian's heartbeat slowly joined with Vincent's own pulse rushing through his ears and Vincent let himself relax into the sound—a lifeline in the storm, the way it had always been. The sound and taste and smell and feel of Christian always there, always steady. His anchor. The beacon pulling him back home.

Christian was the anchor…but Vincent was the one dragging them both down.

"No," Vincent said into the soft, cool fabric of Christian's T-shirt, the words muffled by cotton and skin, and he wasn't sure if Christian had even heard him.

He tried once more to pull himself away. In response, Christian pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

"Don't. Vincent. I know what you're going to say and just…don't."

The last time Vincent had heard Christian's voice this close to breaking Roman had practically needed to hold him back from rushing full sprint through the streets of Saransk, not stopping until he'd burst through the door of Christian's hotel room and kissed every last worry out of his mind.

"It's best—" Vincent started, but Christian cut him off.

"No."

Vincent said nothing, waiting for Christian to regain his composure and find his words.

"This thing, Vince…you and me. Toby's right…it's stupid. It's never made any sense. I'm here and you're there and maybe we'll never be in the same place again. And I won’t lie… it hurts. It hurts so fucking much to keep watching you walk away. And I know we should end it and I know it should be over, but you know what? I don't care. I should care, but I don't."

He stopped again, then shifted a bit around Vincent, his head ducking down and his arms lifting slightly. Vincent shifted along with him, turning his body so he could stare up into Christian's eyes—pale blue-green, the white parts now shot through with red; dark circles beneath them, the skin puffy and bruised.

Christian wiped once at his nose with the back of his hand.

"Everyone thinks I'm so rational. Oh, Christian, you know, he's so level-headed. Thinks everything through. He has it all planned out."

"You can't honestly say you don't, though," Vincent interrupted, and Christian's face quirked into a forced half-smile.

"You’re right. I did. At least, as much as anyone can plan these things. But…I never planned on you."

" _Christiaan_." Vincent started, but Christian cut him off.

"I mean it. This whole thing…it wasn't in the plan. Because you can't plan on falling in love, Vincent, it just happens." He gave a wry laugh. "Sometimes it happens despite your plans and all your best efforts to the contrary."

"But…what about all the rest?" Vincent asked. "Your career. Your life. You said yourself that you’re better without me to worry about.”

This time it was Vincent’s turn to sniffle and wipe the back of his hand against his nose, his chest tightening once again, his throat closing against the words he knew he needed to say.

“I never want to hold you back, Chris."

"Impossible.”

Christian leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss to Vincent's lips.

It was soft and fleeting, the mere ghost of skin against skin, soft and hesitant, as though they were coming together for the first time, but Vincent felt the warmth of it radiate down through his entire body, and he leaned into Christian, wanting more.

Instead, Christian lifted an index finger and rested it against Vincent's mouth.

Vincent let out a soft whine of protest, and Christian smiled, a true smile this time, not some forced, thin-lipped thing.

“Everything that’s come your way in the last year,” he said. “And here you are, ready for more. I don’t know if I would have handled it half as well as you’ve managed. You’re the strongest of us all, Vincent.”

He reached out and grabbed Vincent’s hand, twining their fingers together.

"I'm sorry for the past few days," he said. "I didn't…honestly I was being stupid and childish. I'd spent the better part of a week trying to come to terms with everything…missing the penalty and not carrying the team through. And then I come home and you’re here throwing me a party as though I’m a hero, and I loved you for that and everything was perfect, but… I don’t know. The thought that you were leaving again. That this might be all there is… a few weeks together, snatches of time. I thought… well. I tried to tell myself, don’t get attached this time, but…"

At this, Vincent flung himself backward, away from Christian, colliding with the back of the sofa so hard it nearly knocked the wind out of him.

 _And here we go_ , he thought. _The conversation comes full circle_.

“Right,” he said. “Well… this is why I left. Because… I will be leaving. And you have your own life to be getting on with. You don’t need me holding you back.”

“No,” Christian shook his head, leaning back to join Vincent, their faces less than a metre apart once more. “You didn’t let me finish.”

He leaned in and pressed his forehead against Vincent's.

"The point, _Liefje_ ," he said. "Is that you can't possibly hold me back. Because you make me want to be my absolute best."

In an instant, Vincent shifted forward to close the few centimetres of space between them, wrapping his arms around Christian and dragging him closer. Their noses bumped together and Vincent shifted until he found Christian's lips with his own. Christian's tongue licked into Vincent's mouth at the contact, his hands digging into Vincent's shoulders, both of them needing to pull the other closer and closer until they might be able to fuse together as one.

Where the words had been sweet and soft and gentle, their kisses were anything but. These were deep and hungry and absolutely carnal, everything hot and wet and rough.

Taste of mint on Christian's tongue. The smell of liquorice and sweat. Christian's hands sliding under the hem of his thin T-shirt, fingers skimming along the skin of his back.

A shudder ran through Vincent at the contact—Christian's skin on his own. Days of frustration and weeks of longing and months of need and years of desire—Vincent let it all pour out of him now as he pulled away from Christian to nip and suck at the skin below his jaw.

He ran a hand down Christian's sweat-soaked back, fingertips stroking along his spine, making Christian gasp and lean in harder. Vincent let himself slide back down to stretch out on the sofa, pulling Christian down with him. Chest to chest, the fabric of the thin T-shirts they each wore now damp with sweat, everything humid and hot, bodies radiating heat into one another. They both shifted and twisted, Christian flipping his legs around to straddle Vincent's thighs with his knees.

Vincent's already painfully hard cock now pressed against Christian's, and the shared moans they let out at the contact were utterly vulgar.

Christian's hands tugged at Vincent's shirt, lifting it upward, and Vincent pulled it off. Christian followed suit, skin glistening with sweat in the sunlight pouring through the windows. Vincent had a brief thought in the back of his mind that the light was wrong—too bright, and he should close the blinds—but at the slide of Christian's dick against his own and the swipe of Christian's tongue against his throat, all thoughts scattered to the wind.

Now, his hands on Christian. Strong, lean lines of his body that Vincent could never forget. Gods he would miss this whenever life dragged him away again. He stroked up and down Christian's spine, reveling in the way his muscles rippled and contracted beneath his fingers. Christian above him twisting and writhing, rubbing their bodies together. Vincent letting out a hiss of breath, his vision going white as all the blood in his body rushed towards his groin.

Salt of Christian's skin. Air thick with heat and sweat. Moans and gasps of pleasure filling the room. Vincent's chest tight, body thrumming, heartbeat pounding.

Christian's hand slid between them to palm Vincent's aching cock through his jeans, and Vincent screamed with the pleasure and pain of it.

Fingers digging and tearing at button and zipper, both of them broke off their kisses to free Vincent's cock from it's confines. Drag of fabric as Christian stroked him through the thin cotton of his boxers. Vincent tugging Christian down for another kiss.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" A sharp voice cut through the fog in Vincent's brain. Above him, Christian went still, hand not moving from it's grip on Vincent's cock, Vincent's lip caught between Christian's own.

"What…?" Christian gasped out and then "Oh…fuck."

 _I thought that's what we were doing_ , Vincent thought, but he couldn't remember how to make his mouth form the words.

Christian shifted, dragging his hand away from Vincent's cock, and Vincent let out a low whine at the loss of contact. His whole body thrummed, blood pulsing through his groin, desperate for Christian to continue.

Instead, he rolled onto his side across Vincent's chest to rest against the back of the sofa, ribcage digging painfully into Vincent's own. He slid towards the edge, giving Christian a few more centimetres of space, but Christian's body remained mostly draped over his; rigid cock now pressed against Vincent's hip.

Vincent slid his eyes open, sights and sounds drifting back into his consciousness.

Birdsong outside. Too bright sunlight through the windows. Sofa cushions damp and slick with sweat beneath the bare skin of his back. Room around him familiar, but not, and…oh fuck, indeed.

He pressed the hand not currently wrapped around Christian to his face, unsure if the hot flush to his skin was due to his exertions or the embarrassment of the situation. Probably both.

To his left, Christian's face was almost ghostly pale, his whole body tense and rigid as he stared across the room with wide eyes.

"I take it you two have worked out your differences then," Ben said, not moving from where he'd come to a standstill at the base of the stairs. "That's…good, I suppose. I mean, it is what I asked for, so… I don’t know what I expected."

"Oh…fuck," Christian said again, only this time with a good deal more emphasis. "Ben. I didn't. We… It's not… fuck."

He wriggled around, trying to free his right hand from where it was trapped beneath Vincent, but Vincent pulled him closer, twisting to press a soft kiss to the top of Christian's head.

"Shhhh, _Lieveke_ ," he whispered. "Breathe."

He pulled his own hand free, then worked on untangling his legs from Christian's so they could sit up. As he moved, his still unbuttoned jeans shifted, and he felt a rush of cooler air against his still-hard cock. He gasped and hissed at the sensation, the edges of his vision going white for a moment and he fell back into the cushions, staring up at the bright white of Ben's living room ceiling.

"Oh," Ben said. "Well. That's…that's right there then. Okay. I mean, it's not exactly what a bloke expects to see when he comes downstairs in his own home for a spot of breakfast. Enough to put a man off his feed."

Christian let out a long, distressed groan and buried his face in his hands.

" _Godverdamme_ ," Vincent muttered, reaching down to hastily tuck everything back into place. He winced at the painful contact, but bit down hard on his lip, made sure everything was securely away from any stray zippers, and did up the button.

Everything situated, he rolled onto his side and dropped his feet to the floor, then twisted around into a sitting position. Christian shifted along with him, the two of them wriggling around until they were both seated side-by-side on the sofa. They bent to retrieve their shirts from where they'd been discarded—Christian's on the floor, Vincent's draped over the back of the sofa—then hastily redressed and straightened up.

Christian scooted closer to the centre of his cushion, back to keeping a careful distance between them. His previously pale face was now flushed pink with embarrassment, and he stared down at the floor.

"I…" he said, but trailed off.

Vincent looked at Ben. "I think what Christian means is…sorry. It was not our intent for…this." He gestured to the two of them and the sofa. "Sometimes these things just…"

Ben shook his head at Vincent, then slipped into the room and stood beside the sofa.

"To be honest, I can't say I'm overly surprised. Every time you two have been within a yard of one another over the past few days I wasn't sure whether you were going to rip each other's clothes off or rip each other apart."

A pause, and then he let out a sharp bark of a laugh. "From the looks of things, if I hadn't come in when I did it might have been the first followed by the second."

Another distressed groan from Christian.

Ben laughed, then dropped to the sofa and tugged Christian into a sideways hug. "Come off it, mate. It's not as bad as all that. I mean, not gonna lie to you, I'm glad you sorted out whatever was going on between you. You two are endgame and all that."

"What?" Christian asked, finally dragging himself out of his cocoon to look over at Ben.

"You know," Ben said. "Endgame. Like the Taylor Swift song."

Christian pulled a face at him at that, but Ben ignored him and continued speaking. "Like…you know, what it is is it's like it’s inevitable. The goal you’ve had all along in life. Like, everything's pointing towards this being the one that's going to last forever, isn't it?"

He shrugged. "Anyway, point is, I'm glad you've fixed yourselves up. Although…I rather wish you maybe wouldn't have done on my sofa."

At this, he flicked a glance down towards the cushion he now sat on, then grimaced and slowly climbed to his feet.

"Stop being a wanker," Christian said in the dry, sarcastic tone he reserved for giving his friends grief.

Ben held up both hands in mock surrender. "All I'm saying is, I'm glad to finally be officially in the know, as it were, but if I'd known it meant innocently walking into my living room to find you two at it, I might have decided to stay blissfully in the dark."

Another glare from Christian, and Ben let out a full-throated laugh. "You're such a wind-up. It's almost too easy."

"Fuck off," Christian said, but he was smiling now.

"Anyway...I'll send you the bill for the cleaning. I'm paying for the deep clean service. Even still, I may just have to bin this one and buy a whole new sofa. And you two are definitely not allowed to sit on it unsupervised ever again."

He stuck both hands out towards them, then grabbed their wrists and pulled them both off the sofa. "Now come on. Thanks to having to entertain a problematic houseguest in the middle of the night and now the horrors of my morning I'm famished. Breakfast. And you're paying."

**Author's Note:**

> So... this fic was more than a year in the making and somehow fought me from start to finish. It was A. GRIND. But it is done, and I'm celebrating that. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Much thanks must go to the ever patient Jonas Sollers for putting up with ALL my bullshit and listening to me talk at him about this fic for ages on end. You (mostly) endured it like a champion. Thanks, also, for saving me from myself, talking me down from quitting, and not letting me break my laptop any of those times.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art For "It's A Long Way Up When You Hit the Ground"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20227540) by [afteriwake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake)




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